


Mix Tape III and IV

by Kokolo, mugsandpugs



Series: Mix Tape [3]
Category: X-Men Evolution
Genre: Angst, Childhood Friends, Codependency, Fade to Black, Fairy Tale Elements, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, LGBTQ Jewish Character(s), Lovers To Enemies, M/M, Minor Character Death, Morlocks (X-Men), Mutants, Road Trips, Spies & Secret Agents, Underage Drinking, Xavier Institute
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2019-09-14 21:34:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 43,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16920801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kokolo/pseuds/Kokolo, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mugsandpugs/pseuds/mugsandpugs
Summary: Working as a spy for Xavier, Pietro ensures Lance and Kitty's housing and well-being within the professor's mansion. Lance, still getting used to his new mutant powers, has no idea the lengths his boyfriend will go to keep him safe. (Still endgame Pietro/Lance).





	1. Part Three: Mix Tape

  ** **Part Three** , Chapter 1: Mix Tape  
**

****  
****  


жж

_You'll be loved, you'll be loved,_  
_Like you never have known._  
_And the memories of me will seem more like bad dreams._  
_Just a series of blurs, like I never occurred._  
_Someday, you will be loved._

Death Cab for Cutie, _“Someday You Will Be Loved”_  
  
 жж  
  
_October 2001_

Pietro didn't like this, not at all. And neither, apparently, did Charles.

"May I speak with you privately, Mr. Maximoff?" the man asked, regarding the teenager with disconcerting interest in his cold blue eyes.

Pietro opened his mouth to say _yes, immediately,_ but was interrupted by both Carmen and Lance speaking in heated unison: "No."

Pietro turned a surprised glance toward both of the protective males, before thinking the situation through. Of course this would look strange to an outsider, unaware of their avuncular relationship.

"Professor Xavier is a friend of my father's," he explained. "I've known him since I was a toddler. He wouldn't hurt me."

Best friend? Mortal enemy? _Lover?_ When it came to Magneto, it was all one and the same.

Was it shocking that Pietro felt a flash of relief mixed among his other emotions? This sudden appearance of Charles was the first taste he’d had of his former life since the day of Father’s abandonment, over four years prior.

Teresa Pryde was shaking her head, unruly hair escaping from her bun. "Pietro is sixteen," she sternly told her guest. "If you want to talk to him, you'll need an adult present."

"And you speak for him?" Charles inquired. Without raising his voice or changing his expression, he still took command of the room, injecting profound disdain into every syllable. "Were I to investigate, _you_ would be registered as his caregiver?"

Teresa faltered. Charles must have plucked the thought straight from her mind like a ripe plum-- his specialty. Before she recovered, Pietro was already making for the front door, holding it open for Charles with exaggerated politeness.

On soundless wheels, Charles directed his chair after him. He managed to do so with great poise and dignity, despite the steepness of the driveway. He didn't ask for help, and Pietro didn't offer any.

Lance hustled to the door after them.

"I said no," he protested, all teenage bluster. He stood with legs apart and shoulders squared, but his uncertain expression gave him away. "If you're... If you're _that man’s_ friend, I'm not leaving you alone with Tro."

Charles looked at Lance over his shoulder-- looked long and hard at the mutant who had caused such local destruction as to attract his attention all the way from New York.

"Lance Dominic Alvers," Charles said, soft and almost kind. "Mover of earth; son of nothing. You may one day be _a_ hero, but you will never be _this_ boy’s hero."

Lance looked stricken: eyes wide, jaw dropping in silent dismay. Pietro felt a growl rise in his throat. He wanted to argue that Lance _was_ , without question, his hero, but how could he say such a thing? He had no intention of allowing him to be; not now, not ever. He’d been past rescue from the start.

Charles knew this, and the look he levered on his former partner’s son spoke volumes. They pierced through Pietro, seeing all that he was, all that he’d ever been, and found him a sad echo of his father’s might. Pietro grit his teeth and bore the scrutiny. _I may be garbage, but I can still love, old man._

“Lance,” Charles said, commanding, yet soft. “Turn around. Close the door. Sit inside, and do not interrupt.”

Lance stilled, his eyes going blank, losing focus. After a moment of resembling a statue, he turned on his heel and walked stiffly back into the house as ordered. Pietro had a very distinct mental image of him joining the Pryde family at the kitchen table, motionless and unblinking.

"This is why Father doesn't trust you, you know," Pietro remarked, trying to sound flippant-- a useless mask against the most powerful telepath in living memory. "You play yourself off as this benign force uniting mutantkind and humanity in some magical lala-land where we can all frolic in harmony, but only if everyone does what _you_ want them to, right?”

"Children don't belong in politics," Charles dismissed when Pietro, tired of talking down to him, sat on the low stone wall surrounding the Pryde's front yard. It was cold and dark with only the first hint of sunrise. Pietro could see his own breath lingering in the air when he spoke.

“Our voices don’t belong in politics, yet our bodies belong on the frontlines; is that right?”

Pietro snorted at Charles’ blank expression. He remembered a time when he'd been small enough to sit in this very man's lap as he and Father enjoyed their endless battles of chess; whether inside Charles’ mansion or just outside, underneath his gazebo, the location didn’t matter. The two men experienced a deeper connection with one another than either was capable of sharing with the rest of the world.

_My only equal_ , Father had called Charles. _A pity he's positively insufferable._

Pietro had sat still and pristine in Charles' lap, wearing his finest clothes, compliant as a doll.  But Wanda… Wanda had never been content to do any such thing. Never still. Never quiet. Always with her scraped knees, her torn dresses, her tangled black hair. Her favorite word was "No," and she screamed it often. She punched it from the very air in red and blue flames.

"What about your child soldiers, then?" Pietro asked. "That's why you're here, right? You want them. You want Lance and Kitty, and I just happened to get in your way."

Charles winced; exaggerated, putting on a show without an audience. "Of course your father would have poisoned you to see me in such a light. Yes, I want the Pryde girl. I'm uninterested in your little autumn fling. He is powerful, but he’s too old, jaded, and stubborn to shape into an acceptable student. I know a waste of resources when I see one."

Pietro couldn't help himself: his lip curled. He'd been spending too much time with the dynamic duo of Lance and Kitty. Once, he’d been stellar at concealing his reactions. "Don't you _dare_ call him that. Lance is worth a thousand of you. Of us both put together."

A smile touched Charles' pale lips. "And your opinion isn't biased at all, I'm sure." He patted Pietro on the shoulder. "Codependency isn’t love, dear heart. You’re a smart boy; surely you _know_."

Something inside Pietro roared blue fury at the words. He worked hard to return his expression to blank neutrality, though the effort was pointless: Charles could read his every thought like an open book.

"Oh," Charles shook his head. " _He_ still thinks it's love, don't you worry. He could go his entire life never knowing otherwise.”

_Never knowing that you manipulated him into feeling this way. Never knowing that you are_ not _something worth loving, Pietro Maximoff._

Charles didn't say the words. He didn't need to. They'd been inside Pietro all along. Instead Charles said, "I didn't intend for this to be a lengthy visit. I'm here only for Pryde. Take your toy. Enjoy him all you like, or don't; it makes no difference to me."

Shaken back to the original point, Pietro scowled and faced forward, kicking his bare heels against the stone wall as he thought. If Charles felt so inclined, he could immobilize him where he sat. Pietro would wake an hour or a year  from now with no memory of what had transpired; perhaps with no memory that Kitty had ever existed. But Charles would do no such thing, because Pietro was…

"Father," Pietro said triumphantly, hope blooming anew. "You don't want my _father_ to have Lance, do you? Imagine what he'd do with so much raw power. He could make the world bow."

And with that, Pietro felt himself make a 180° shift in his position. When mere seconds before he'd been highly resistant to Charles claiming his friends, now he saw that it was the only way to keep them safe.

Stubborn and unshapable or not, just the day before Lance had proven himself as a force of nature, a chess piece powerful enough to turn the tides of war all on his own. Lance was a mutant, and there were many out there who would exploit him for it. He was a walking weapon; a biological catastrophe.

Charles frowned, forehead creasing, eyes thoughtful. "You would allow your father to perform his little 'experiments' on your friends?"

The thought made Pietro feel sick to his stomach. “I would hate it," he admitted grudgingly. "Could I stop him? No. But _you_ could. Take them, Charles. Lance has no control; no idea how powerful he is. Train him, or something worse than the stuff that happened yesterday will come, sooner or later. He'll end up in a nuthouse, just like..." _Just like Wanda._

Only, he wouldn't. Wanda had Father and his status and his mountains of reclaimed nazi gold. Magneto could afford to build, staff, and maintain an institution dedicated entirely to imprisoning and servicing his daughter; to keeping her alive and under his control. _Lance,_ on the other hand--

"There are worse places for dangerous mutants to disappear to," Charles agreed softly, his voice tinged with genuine sorrow. Places at the end of the world, once marked on maps with 'Here there be dragons.' Places that would make a jail cell look like a five-star hotel. What Magneto had done to his daughter was an act of kindness in comparison.

Pietro knew with a sinking resolve that such a place could easily claim Lance. If not now, then soon. Charles held all the pieces here, and Pietro wasn't nearly as adept an opponent as his father.

"Take them both, then," Pietro demanded. He wasn't begging yet, but if things came to that, he would do so without shame. "Help him. Teach him how to be good. Protect him. If it's money you need, I’ll steal you all the cash in the world."

He would, too. What bank could close its doors fast enough to keep him out?

"It's not money I’m interested in," Charles replied, a new glint in his eye. "Try a better bargain. What could you give me in exchange for the enormous risk and burden of mentoring a young time-bomb?"

Pietro's mind was now racing so quickly that he, himself was having trouble keeping up. He had nothing. So why was Charles looking at him with such sly intrigue?

It at last hit him in a burst of understanding: _I don’t ‘have.’ I ‘am.’_

Speed was a more subtle power than the abilities of those around him, but Pietro knew how to use it well. Speed was time; currency; information. Speed was invisibility, and while that wasn’t quite the same thing as _invincibility,_ it came pretty damn close.

Though it made him feel claustrophobic, he set his resolve. Squaring his shoulders like Lance often did, he stuck his chin out proudly and turned to stare into Charles' eyes, seeing the rising sliver of sun reflecting back at him from each indigo iris. "Me. I’ll give you me."

He could have a panic attack about this choice later. Now, though, he had to stand firm. How many times had Lance saved him; protected him; acted the hero? Now it was Pietro’s turn. He held very still when his father's oldest-- and only-- friend reached and gently stroked the hair from his eyes, thumb cold on Pietro’s temple as he regarded the newest tool in his arsenal.

"You know," Charles said conversationally. "At first glance, I was sorely disappointed that you don't much favor your father. But right in this moment, the resemblance is uncanny."

жж

Round Table staff were agonizingly slow in all things, so Lance's head was still spinning with how quickly they got him clearance to visit Deerfield prison. Who knew a thick stack of cash, courtesy of Xavier himself, would take him so far?

The meeting room was sparse and utilitarian; all tables and chairs bolted to cement floors. He and his caseworker-- a disinterested-looking woman named Susan-- sat together, shoulder-to-shoulder, and stared at the single, heavy door. Already they’d been through the rigamarole of paperwork and invasive pat-downs to be allowed entry this far. His hands felt naked without their ever-present fingerless gloves.

There were other people in the large room besides them, of course; what looked like somebody’s girlfriend, and someone else’s dad, all waiting patiently for their beloved inmates. In each corner stood armed guards, talking quietly to one another. Lance bounced his leg, anxious, wishing that his Walkman hadn’t been confiscated and placed in a security locker at the front desk.

Finally, though, the door opened, and a line of prisoners in their orange jumpsuits were escorted by yet more guards to their respective visitors. On locking eyes,“Wilson, Dexter,” gave Lance a crooked smile.

“Yo, shitstain! I wondered when I’d see your punk ass ‘round this place. And you ain’t even in cuffs yet!”

He lounged in the chair across from Lance and Susan, somehow making industrial metal look like a king’s throne. That was all the invitation Lance needed to lunge across the table and claim his one allotted hug. He’d been warned beforehand that excessive physical contact would not be tolerated, so he made the most of it, burying his face in Dex’s shoulder and squeezing him hard until a guard cleared his throat.

Dex’s gentle hand, still sullied with the hated WOLF tattoo, left Lance’s hair as both resumed their normal, seated positions. His teasing smirk had become, for just a moment, something much softer. He looked truly happy to see his “kid.”

“You look like shit,” Lance lied, blinking hard to chase away the sudden moisture in his eyes. In truth, Dex was looking better than he had in a long while. His hair was growing in cherubic gold curls, and his hollow cheeks had filled out from regular meals. He no longer felt like he could be knocked over by a stiff breeze. It was rather telling that prison life was better for Dex’s health than freedom had ever been.

“I really let a bunch of strangers fondle my junk for this?”

“Probably the most action you’ve ever gotten, virgin.”

Dex’s easy smile was quickly overwhelming his face, making Lance’s heart pound. He’d _missed_ the weaselly bastard; hadn’t seen him since the trial. It did him good to see that the man was alive and whole. Lance still had recurring nightmares about the horrific arrest. Nightmares… and guilt. Dex wouldn’t have been caught if he hadn’t been helping Lance, after all...

He'd compartmentalized the trauma as best he could, reminding himself that Kurt Cobain himself had once been imprisoned for spray-painting cars, proclaiming to all the world that **God Is Gay**! Still, it was one of the most difficult things Lance had had to deal with in his short life.

They gazed at each other for a moment, content, before Lance remembered they had only half an hour to talk, if that. “A lot’s been happening. Is everything okay here?”

Not that there was much of anything Lance could do if it _wasn’t,_ but it felt proactive just to ask. Dex nodded smugly.

“Oh, yeah. Everyone here is my bitch; even the guards. We’re cool.”

Lance pointedly looked around at the other inmates present, all of whom were considerably taller and heavier than Dex’s malnourished frame. Dex was far from a strong man, even with the few extra pounds he’d gained. He was still shrunken and nicotine-stained.

Dex, guessing his thoughts, snorted. “Ain’t the size of the boat; it’s the motion of the ocean. Trust me. Everything’s under control. How’s it hanging?”

Lance had his doubts. Though Dex had reigned supreme in the Round Table house, here, he didn’t have the benefit of reputation on his side—but they didn't have the time to hash it out. Lance had a very tiny window to get all the important details on the table, and every second that passed was another opportunity for something to go awry, for visiting hours to be cancelled.

“I’m going to live at a school in New York. I’m leaving in two days.”

Dex cocked his head, clearly waiting for the punchline. When none came, his brow wrinkled. “Wait; you’re serious?”

“Yeah; this old man came to Pryde’s house, and he wanted—”

“A weird old man wants to take you away?!” Now both of Dex’s eyebrows were raised, his jaw clenched tight as his fists. “Did he try anything with you?! I swear I’ll kick his--”

“Pietro and Kitty are coming, too,” Lance interrupted before Dex could say anything to make the guards take notice. “Carmen and Teresa are all for it. It’s a… private school. For special kids.” Lance couldn’t really explain all the ‘mutant’ stuff. It was so new, so bizarre…

If it had just been he and Dex, alone with all the time in the world, Lance would have told him everything. Would have demonstrated his abilities, though he was too scared now to even test them out; too afraid of a repeat incident like what had happened to his school. Dex would have believed him; would have supported him. But there wasn’t the time or privacy to discuss it here and now.

Dex considered him for a long moment, and Lance resisted the urge to squirm guiltily. It didn’t feel right to be so excited over going on an adventure while Dex was trapped in this box. But--

“You’re happy about this?” Dex clarified, leaning forward on the table and lowering his voice. Lance unconsciously imitated his posture and tone. “For real?”

“I am. I think it’ll be awesome.” To be leaving town with his two best friends? To live in a big city? To meet other kids like himself? It felt almost too good to be true, and yet here it was happening. To _him_!

Dex studied him a moment longer, gray eyes serious. Then his posture relaxed, and he resumed his easy smile. “Fuck, kid; I’m happy for you.”

Lance released a breath of relief. It felt like he’d just received Dex’s blessing, and now he was truly allowed to feel the full joy of his situation. It bubbled in him like carbonation, tingling in his cheeks, his fingertips. He gave Dex a dopey grin. “Dude,” he said helplessly, and then could think of nothing else to follow that up with. So he said it again: “ _Dude_!”

Susan rolled her eyes. The boys continued ignoring her, as they’d long made a habit with all the government employees in their home. The soft conversation of inmates and visitors all around barely filtered into their consciousness.

Dex, still grinning, remarked idly, “You’d better take good care of my baby while I’m gone. Soon as I get out of here I’m tracking you down and taking her back.”

Lance’s eyes went wide. “You mean I can take the Jeep _with_ me?!”

It was currently in a shop having repair work done after the parking lot incident, but if Dex hadn’t heard the news about that, there was no point in freaking him out with it.

“Well, someone’s got to watch her. I wouldn’t trust anyone else at that shithole we call home, so… Yeah, you can. But I’m serious about coming after her.”

Dex’s sentence for meth possession and distribution was eight years-- made lighter due to his age, but only a little, as he’d had quite a record of misdemeanors. Eight years might as well have been a whole lifetime away. Still, Lance nodded seriously. “I’ll take care of her. Promise.”

“Good. And take care of you, too, alright?” When Lance looked puzzled, Dex pressed, “I can’t keep an eye on you as much as I’d like, stuck in here like this. You’ll look after yourself, right? Do me proud?”

And there it was again, that unexpected stinging in Lance’s eyes. The room must have been dusty as all hell. He lowered his head, rubbing absently at his scarred knuckles with a thumb. “Yeah, man. For sure.”

Dex didn’t touch him; it wasn’t allowed, but his tattooed hands moved as though he wanted to reach for Lance anyway before thinking better of it. He settled for nodding. “Good boy.”

Lance’s chest felt flooded in warmth. They spent a precious minute in silence, basking in the glow, before the other news Lance had intended to share took precedence in his thoughts.

“Uh, there was one more thing.” He felt a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, even as his face reddened. He wondered how, precisely, to word this next sentence. “About ‘Herr Prissy’... He and I are…”

He saw the light catch in Dex’s eyes; the smirk, pleased and also teasing, that quirked his features. “Oh, yeah?” Dex asked leadingly. “You and Silver, huh? That how it is?”

The red staining Lance’s brown cheeks fanned into flames. “Shut up,” he snapped, but he was beaming like an idiot; he just couldn’t help himself.

“You dog.” Dex looked pleased as punch. “I fuckin’ _called_ it. Some guys at home owe me big money.”

Lance couldn’t quite suppress the bark of a laugh this punched from his lungs. “You _bet_ on us?!”

“Sure did.”

“You dick!”

They grinned stupidly at each other. “He’s lucky,” Dex commented, would-be-casual. “To have you. There’s nobody better, kid. You’re golden.”

Just how much dust _was_ there in this damn visitation room?! Lance swiped at his watery eyes and nose with his sleeve. “Thanks, man.”

“Five minutes!” called the guard by the door, looking wearily tolerant, as though if it were up to him, these little visits wouldn’t be allowed at all. Dex glanced his way, then back to Lance.

“Hey kid?” he said, voice hushed once again. “Not to get all mushy on your ass, but stay in school, okay? I’ve said it before: If any one of us can get out of this shithole, it’s you. _You_ can go places. Do what we couldn’t. Take your car and your guitar, but keep your friends close. Remember who you are.”

Lance was so startled he almost didn’t notice the tear that slid from his own eye, curving his jaw. Dex, ever a rulebreaker, reached across the table and thumbed it away, then let his hand linger on Lance’s face. His eyes were serious as the grave.

“Yeah,” Lance agreed. “Okay. Find me, though. Find me when you get out.”

“You bet your ass I’m gonna. Me and you, punk. Kings of the world.”

Lance smiled. Another tear followed the first; then a third. For once, Dex didn’t even tease him for being a total crybaby. The world had truly flipped upside down.

“Times up,” the guard by the door called, and then approached at a commanding clip. Before he could be hauled away, Dex wrapped his an around Lance’s neck and held tight.

“Happy early birthday, by the way,” he said, and Lance snuffled a rather wet laugh. Of course Dex remembered. He would be turning seventeen in _New York_!

The guard placed a hand on Dex’s thin shoulder, pulling him back. Dex gave Lance a two-fingered salute and walked off with a swagger like it was his own idea. It did Lance good to still see him so bullheadedly arrogant.

“We should go now,” Susan said crisply. Lance wanted to argue, but she was correct. For the time being, they were done here.

It was hours later, after leaving some cash in Dex's commissary account, after picking the repaired Jeep up from the shop, after putting in his resignation at Dave’s Nursery, that Lance found himself in his empty bedroom, looking over the cracked walls and battered, empty bunks that had been his life for so long now.

He folded his clothes, tucking boxers and t-shirts into a black garbage bag. His rock collection was nestled into the pockets of pants; the shoebox of cassette tapes and batteries from the ceiling panel was placed on top, and he smiled when he saw a long-dead glowstick roll over his belongings. It all felt too surreal, like at any moment he'd wake and be plunged back into the monotony of his ordinary life.

A sound at the door made him turn. He saw both Griff and Gaten watching him with uncertainty in their morose eyes. They'd lost boys before, of course; whether through prison or death or simply growing up and moving away, Round Table housing was not a forever situation. But Lance had been a fixture in their lives for so _long_...

"Hey," Lance said, feeling suddenly warm towards his housemates. "Have I ever showed you this really cool place in the woods? It's perfect for if you need to get away; but it’s top secret; just between us..."

жж

Pietro had never before invited Lance into the Hennessey's house. Home, for the both of them, had always been a place meant for leaving. It seemed fitting that it was only on his last day they crossed this final boundary together.

"How many fuckin' clothes does one guy _need_?" Lance whistled, voice muffled in Pietro's closet.

"Leave them," Pietro dismissed uncaringly. The designer jeans and sweaters meant very little to him, and space in the Jeep was limited already. He could steal more later. "Leave all that shit."

Lance poked his head from the closet, hair mussed and staticky. "For real? _All_ of it?"

Pietro shrugged. "Fuck this place," was his only answer. The frost he accumulated while inside the Hennessey's house felt jarring next to the warmth brought by Lance's mere presence. It felt like he was melting into nothing. "You want to burn it to the ground? Be my guest."

"What about all your journals?" Lance asked, and held up a composition book. "You've got like a zillion of them buried in the forest with our money jars."

"Leave it all." If Lance wanted to quake this whole fucking _town_ to rubble, Pietro didn't think he'd lift a finger to stop him, not this time. Pietro had agreed to belong to Charles. That meant that his years of exhaustive effort, of waiting and preparing for Father's return, were all for nothing. A true empire of dirt.

And after all his strategic planning to keep Lance away from the line of fire! He now had to face facts that Lance had been tangled in the mutant web all along; by simple rite of birth. Weren’t genetics just a bitch?

"Kiss me?" Pietro requested, resorting to his old standby of using the bodies of others for distraction. That it was _Lance's_ body he now used sent a pang of guilt through him, but he just _needed_ \--

Lance emerged fully from the closet, cocking his head as he looked Pietro up and down. "You’re upset," he observed. "What's wrong? Why aren't you happy?"

Oh, sure, he was just thrilled to be breaking Father's rules, to be cavorting with the enemy, turning his back on everything he'd ever known. He was just fucking peachy!

Lance stepped closer, crossing the room to stand before his friend. In a fit of pique, Pietro seized the journal from his hand and flung it onto the neatly made bed, then took Lance by the lapels of his vest and hauled him closer. Lance stumbled, catching Pietro's shoulders for balance.

He'd beaten Pietro by a mile in their race for size, standing a good forty pounds heavier and several inches taller than the other, yet he offered no resistance as Pietro surged up into him. Pietro kissed Lance so hard their teeth clacked, wasting no time to force his tongue into Lance's unresisting mouth. Lance breathed a sound that had Pietro's blood burning when he tugged on a handful of that hair.

_God_ , he was big; his chest broad, his arms strong.

Lance pulled back, taking Pietro's face in his rough hands, looking down into his eyes with an almost unbearably tender expression on his face. He ran a thumb under Pietro's eye, stroking him like he was something special, something to be treasured.

And wasn’t that just classic Lance. Pietro suppressed a snarl. Of _course_ Lance could be rough with the rest of the world, fighting housemates for fun and even breaking apart their goddamned school’s parking lot, but when it came to the one person who actually _deserved_ a little brutality--

Lance bent and touched soft lips to Pietro's forehead; then his nose. When Pietro juddered in pent-up energy, he gifted kisses soft as raindrops on each eyelid and finally pecked him on the mouth.

"Mine," he whispered, and pulled Pietro into his chest, pressing a possessive hand flat to Pietro's spine as he rocked him gently.

Pietro shivered harder, every atom in his body quaking, and he balled his fists in Lance's shirt to keep from breaking apart entirely. It was too much. This world; the pressure; his life-- But Lance, as always, was his rock; his anchor in a storm.

"Yeah," Pietro agreed. "Yeah. Whatever. Just--"

"What are you doing in my _house_?!" Mary's unexpected, shrill voice from the open doorway had the two jumping a foot apart. Both looked to where she stood, rage twisting her features into an ugly scowl.

Ignoring her foster son, she advanced instead on Lance, thrusting a finger at his chest. She no doubt recalled a late night, years ago; of two boys sneaking off to Chicago and having the time of their lives. "I know _you_. I told you to stay away from my house!"

Lance held very still, looking down at Mary. Had she always been so small? Once upon a time, she'd seemed huge; a force to be reckoned with; a person to be feared. Now. she looked frail. Human. _Old_.

When she saw that Lance wouldn’t be cowed, Mary whirled to Pietro, fists clenched at her sides. “And you! I thought that we were past this _unnaturalness_ with other boys _._ What happened to Katherine, hmmm? You just have to ruin everything, don’t you? Freak!”

Pietro, long past caring, could have laughed in her face, but Lance was evidently angered by her shouting, especially as she crowded into Pietro's space.

"Hey," Lance barked, voice deep as he caught her shoulder from behind. "Don't touch him. And don't talk to him like that! There's nothing unnatural about him."

Pietro could have told him not to bother. The woman was deranged; so set in her own little bubble that she had no concept of normalcy. She was irrelevant; just a thing that had happened and was now over, like so many others.

"Get your filthy hands off me!" she yelped, and Pietro was able to see clear through her bluster to the terrified little creature lurking beneath. She puffed herself up big and loud to conceal it, but she was a coward through and through. "I know what you are, boy; you're pure trash. Nothing but a thug. I know what happens to boys like you."

"That's enough." Pietro slid between her and Lance. "Mary, get out. I'm leaving, okay? I'd say it's been great, but that'd be a big fat lie. Go fuck yourself."

It was the most satisfying thing he’d ever said, sweet and rich as dark chocolate on his tongue.

Her pupils shrank to tiny pinpricks. He thought he saw a blood vessel pop in one eye. Red-faced now, she sucked in great lungfuls of air to produce a barely coherent shriek: "How _dare_ you! After all that I’ve done for you--"

Pietro saw the palm aimed for his face, but Lance's caught her wrist before Pietro ever felt the crack of impact. Lance squeezed hard, looming over her, his eyes burning pure molten gold. Pietro heard the fragile bones in her arm creak underneath Lance's crushing fingers.

"P-p-please..." Mary begged, her voice a baby bird’s peep. Pietro thought back to all the times she'd hit him; pushed him; screamed at him; starved him; threatened him with homelessness, with conversion therapy, with Christian camp. She’d made his life a living hell for years. Pietro didn’t know if he wanted Lance to let her go… or to smear her into paste all over the floor.

Lance leaned in close. Though Mary tried to pull away from him, there was no escaping that iron grip. Into her ear he whispered menacingly, "You are never going to touch him again."

Tiny tears pooled in her lashes like dew on cobwebs, and she caved like a rotting Jack-o-Lantern. "No," she agreed meekly. "N-never again. _Please_!"

Lance released her, one slow finger at a time. Once freed she stumbled back, clutching her sore wrist to her chest, looking between them like a rabbit facing two wolves. Pietro certainly _felt_ like a wolf in that moment: tense and hungry for blood.

As if sensing this, Mary turned on her heel and sprinted down the hallway as fast as her legs could carry her. They both heard the door to her bedroom slam hard enough to rattle the walls.

In the silence that followed, Pietro was the first to recover. "We should go get Kitty," he said pragmatically as Lance massaged his temples, like he always did when he was developing a migraine. "Mary's got a phone in her room. She'll probably call the police."

When Lance looked back at him, Pietro was both relieved and disappointed to see that the gold in his eyes had mostly leached away. "Yeah," Lance agreed, and cautiously offered Pietro his hand. The relief on his face when Pietro took it was unmistakable. Had he been afraid he’d overstepped some boundary? Tested Pietro’s affection for Mary? Fat chance.

Lacing their fingers, Pietro tugged Lance down the hallway, past the hated yellow walls and their happy family photos that had never once included him. Past the bowls of fake fruit. Past the La-ZBoy recliners and wall-sized television, and at long last out the front door.

In silence, both boys climbed into the Jeep; Lance at the helm and Pietro sentry in the crow’s nest. When Pietro glanced back at the house, he saw Mary peeking at them from her bedroom window. When they locked eyes, she dropped the curtain and was obscured from his view. He snorted.

When Lance reached for the glove compartment, Pietro smacked his hand away. "No booze, Lancelot. Just get some ibuprofen from the Prydes if your head hurts."

"I guess you could run all the way to New York," Lance realized, glancing at Pietro's legs.

"And miss all the fun? No way." Pietro felt absolutely no desire to be under Charles' thumb any sooner than he had to be. He truly was jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire. But glancing at Lance's face as the other teenager backed out of the Hennessey's driveway and onto the road, he was reminded anew of just why he'd made his choice. Lance _would_ have a future-- a future that didn't involve being splayed across Father's operating table, or rotting in some hell like the Icebox.

Pietro had told Charles his father would use Lance to make the world bow. He suspected, however, that Lance would one day be capable of creating such a radical ultimatum all on his own.

_Well_ , Pietro thought exhaustedly. _Fuck the world anyway, right? What’s it ever done for us?_

Lance looked solemn as they drove past the crater that had once been their school parking lot, now empty; all shattered tarmac and yellow ribbons of caution tape waving like fingers in the wind.

"It wasn't your fault," Pietro quickly reassured him. "You couldn't help it. And nobody even got hurt, so who cares?"

"Yeah," Lance muttered, unconvinced. "Thanks to you and Kitty. What happens next time, though?"

Pietro waved the concern away. "Don't be dumb. We'll always be there for the ‘next time.’ And Charles is gonna teach you how to use your powers Soon, it'll be your _tool_ ; not a weapon controlling you.”

Not that there weren't countless people, human and mutant alike, who would be more than happy to _use_ Lance as a weapon… But never mind all that. Pietro would never allow it to happen, so why scare him with such big information when he could remain blissfully ignorant?

Lance peeked at him again when they idled at a red light. "Tell me," he said cautiously. "This Charles guy. He's really... He's a good guy, right? I mean..."

No need to get tangled in the gray complications of good versus evil. “Good” was a relative term. “Good,” in Pietro’s agenda, was whichever path led to Lance remaining free and happy. What else mattered?

"Yes," Pietro lied smoothly. "He's an asshole, but he's still one of the ‘good guys.’"

Simple-minded Lancelot the Hero accepted the mistruth with ease. He grinned at Pietro, elbowing him lightly in the side. “Well, okay then! Hey… Before we get to Kitty’s house… You should really look in the glovebox, okay?”

“I _said_ no booze,” Pietro insisted. Lance’s drinking problem was another issue they’d have to face soon, but there was time. It’d be fine.

Lance shot him an irritated glare. "It's not that; for fuck's sake. Just _look_."

Pietro looked.

Among the receipts, drivers' manual, registration paperwork, and an extremely stale hunk of beef jerky, Pietro found a small plastic box containing a single cassette tape.

When he held it up to the window, he saw that Lance's messy handwriting across the cardboard read, " _Tro's Top Hits By DJ Lancelot,"_ as well as Lance’s preferred smiley-face; the one that sported little triangular vampire fangs.

"Holy crap," Pietro snorted, before bursting into helpless snickers. "You are the biggest dork I've ever met in my _life._ You made me a mix tape?!"

Lance's ears tinged red at the tips. "Shut up, it's awesome."

Pietro couldn't stop giggling, even as he pushed the cassette into the player. When Kurt Cobain's staticky voice very predictably filled the Jeep, the intensity of Pietro's laughter escalated into a hacking cough.

"I love it _so much_ ," he breathed, wiping at his streaming eyes. "I love it, and I love _you_."

The red in Lance's ears spread to his cheeks as he kept his eyes on the road ahead, but he wore a pleased little smile. "Yeah?"

Pietro rested his head on Lance's shoulder, a million-dollar-smile aching his own cheeks. "Yeah, Lancelot. Always."

This was what Pietro was struggling, lying, cheating, and stealing for. This, right there; this pocket of sun in a world of mud. He could keep fighting forever for _this_.

Kitty's parents were waiting for them in the front room when they arrived. If Lance noticed the way the adult Prydes' eyes were still a little vacant from Charles' influence, he didn’t say a word. That was probably for the best. The effects would wear off in a few days, probably.

When Lance stepped into the house, Teresa flung her arms around his waist. Startled, his hands hovered awkwardly, unsure where to hold her. Finally, he settled for lightly patting her back.

"We're going to miss you," Teresa said tearfully. "So much."

"Oh, uh-- hey..." Lance nervously placated. "We're not gone forever. Of course Kitty'll be home for holidays and stuff, so I'll have to drive her, right?"

"But it feels like just yesterday you three were little babies. You're _still_ little babies!"

"Teresa." Carmen placed a comforting hand on his wife's back. "They'll be just fine. Right, Lance?"

Lance nodded, relieved when Teresa loosened her chokehold. "Yes sir."

Carmen never _had_ quite gotten Lance into the habit of calling him by his first name. He stepped up now and clasped Lance on the shoulder, squeezing gently.

"How's the Jeep?"

"It's incredible, sir. I can't thank you enough."

"It was no trouble. We need a safe chariot for our baby!"

From upstairs, Kitty's scolding face peered over the bannister. " _Daddy,_ " she chided.

Carmen grinned up at his daughter. "What? It's true! You _are_ our baby! Always and forever."

Kitty rolled her eyes and retreated into her bedroom, gathering a few last-minute items.

Teresa approached Pietro and, with a motherly hand, adjusted the collar of his shirt, pressing it smooth. Though he and Kitty had broken up, they'd maintained enough of a friendship that he was still on good terms with her parents.

"You boys are welcome in our home any time," Teresa told them sincerely. "Holidays, weekends... You're like family to us."

Her words were sincere, and Pietro appreciated her kindness, but knew he wouldn't set foot in Deerfield ever again. Lance might visit from time to time, but he personally couldn't bear it. This place wasn't his home; it was his cage.

Maybe Teresa saw this truth in his eyes, because she only patted his arm gently, her expression a little wistful. "Shalom aleichem, Pietro," Teresa said, and Pietro slipped an arm around her narrow shoulders.

He was far from a huggy person, but the Prydes had been good to him. And maybe a deeply-buried piece of him was thinking of another frizzy-haired Jewish woman; dark-eyed and dark-skinned, that might once also have said such words to him.

"Aleichem shalom, Mrs. Pryde."

Kitty, bundled up for the chilly weather, skipped downstairs with a tote bag over one shoulder and a beaming smile on her face. When she reached the ground floor, Mrs. Pryde released Pietro to instead reach for a camera on the sofa.

"Oh, mom, no _way,_ " Kitty whined, and Pietro was reminded of when he'd brought her to the prom. The Prydes had taken a million photos of them then, too.

"Yes, way! It's just a few little pictures... Come on, stand over there--"

The three indulgently posed for what felt like dozens of shots as Carmen snuck out of the room, returning with a guitar case in hand.

"Lance, can you come here, please?"

Lance, ever eager for Carmen's attention and praise, was quick to do so. He blinked in confusion when the case was passed into his hands.

"I know we haven't jammed in a while," Carmen said. "But a guitar in use is a happy guitar. This was doing nothing but collecting dust on my shelf. Why don't you hold onto it?"

Lance’s features slackened, going from polite surprise to true shock. "You're... You're giving me..."

"Why don't you take a look?" Camen winked.

Carefully, Lance did as asked; placing the case on the sofa and popping the metal latch to reveal a redwood acoustic nestled on the velvet inside; the scrawled signature just under the bridge pins reading--

"Kurt _Cobain_ ." Lance covered his mouth, withdrawing as though afraid to even breathe on the instrument. "Sir, I can't, I-- it's worth _money_ , sir, I--"

Carmen, laughing, patted Lance roughly on the back. "And the look on your face is worth every penny. Seriously. Take it, kid. Make it sing. I'm sure Kurt would be pleased."

Lance, overwhelmed, turned to press his face into Carmen's shoulder. Carmen only laughed harder and held the boy, squeezing the back of his neck.

"I don't know what to say."

"Don't say anything, then. Just be _happy_ , Lance. From one ex-Round Table boy to another, I couldn't be prouder of you if I tried."

Pietro briefly worried that Lance would collapse from the shock as he gawked at Carmen. His face went very white, and he gasped like a landed trout. " _You_ were a--!"

Carmen grinned, waggling a finger. "Ah-ah-ah; I can't tell you _all_ of my secrets at once, can I? Come back for Hanukkah. We'll binge on chocolate babka and trade war stories."

Numbly, Lance nodded. His hands shook as he re-latched the guitar case, toting it at his side like it was a baby in a carrier instead of a musical instrument.

Watching him, Kitty slipped her soft hand into Pietro's, resting her cheek on his arm. "We should go," she reminded them all. "It gets dark so early this time of year..."

"Oh, of course! You don't want to be driving around after dark."

The Prydes loaded Kitty's bags into the Jeep, dispensing rapid-fire advice Lance’s way.

"If your eyes get tired, don't be afraid to pull over--"

"Eat _healthy_ food, not junk. Carbs will only make you sleepy--"

"Do you have the reservation number for your hotel?"

"Absolutely _no_ distracted driving. You hear me, Pietro? Kitty? Let Lance focus."

Finally, the three teenagers were on the road, Kitty twisting in her seat to watch her parents wave from the back window. When she faced front again, Pietro noticed that her eyes were damp and shiny.

"They'll be fine," Pietro reassured her with easy confidence. Even if they weren't mutants themselves, at least one of the Pryde parents was a carrier of the X-gene. There would be no reason to harm them in the upcoming war. "They'll miss you, but you can call them all the time."

Kitty nodded, then curled into a little ball, resting her chin on her knees. Her sunny disposition had faded to melancholy and, not for the first time, Pietro knew she'd been putting on a happy face for the benefit of others.

Deciding to give her a moment to herself, Pietro stared at the miles of road before them while sneaking occasional glances at the boy to his left.

At last, at _long_ last, the winds were finally changing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back, baby!!!
> 
> Part three is 7 chapters long and all beta'd up! - Mugs


	2. Mine (Yours)

**Part Three, Chapter 2: Mine (Yours)**

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They'd been provided two nice, if generic, hotel rooms with four queen-sized beds between them. So how the three teenage mutants wound up squashed into the same bed was anyone's guess.

"Are you _always_ this warm?" Kitty complained, resting the back of her hand on Lance's forehead. "You're making me all sweaty."

"Yep," Pietro answered, flipping through channels on the television, wondering if it was worth being charged extra to pull up a scandalous movie just to fluster his friends. "Just call him Mr. Furnace. Very useful in winter."

Lance poked Pietro in the calf with his toe, gazing innocently forward when Pietro glared at him. Pietro let it go, continuing to watch the television, before oh-so-casually folding his leg over Kitty and prodding Lance straight in the ribcage. His socked foot was promptly seized.

The resultant wrestling match continued until Kitty cheated by phasing down into the mattress, completely out of sight.

Lance unclamped his teeth from Pietro's ankle long enough to look for her. "Kitty?" He patted along the smooth surface of the mattress, searching, and Pietro tried not to laugh when a moment later she popped out from the nearest wall and pounced on Lance’s back, pinning him flat.

“Gotcha!”

"Tricky Kitty."

He'd taken the reveal of his friends' inhuman abilities surprisingly well, which was a relief. Maybe he'd always suspected something strange about them; maybe he loved them too much to care. Regardless, when he rolled onto his side to look at Kitty, it was only pure curiosity in his eyes.

"Show me?"

When he held his palm up, she phased, passing her fingers through skin and bone and out the other side to wiggle at him. Lance laughed, delighted.

"That feels so _weird_! All tingly, like when your foot falls asleep..." He tried to touch her fingertips but passed straight through.

"Nobody could touch you if you didn't want them to," he marvelled, and she smiled proudly before withdrawing her hand and resuming corporeality. This time, when Lance reached to hook his pinkie through hers, he succeeded.

Lance glanced over Kitty's shoulder, where Pietro was pointedly not watching them. He had no right to feel any jealousy over Lance and Kitty's close friendship-- none at all.

"Can I watch you run?" Lance asked, and blinked in surprise at Pietro's flat "No."

"He's too fast to watch," Kitty explained. "He can carry you, but it's not fun, and you can't watch that, either."

"Lance is probably too heavy to carry," Pietro corrected. He was too heavy for _now_ , anyway. Pietro would become stronger; especially with all of Xavier-the-billionaire’s food and equipment at his disposal.

Lance rolled from his side and onto his belly, now frowning at Pietro's legs, stringy and dense with muscle. He pressed a thumb to Pietro's calf, rubbing against the wiry silver hairs, and Pietro gave a full-bodied shiver that bordered on a spasm.

"Don't," he protested throatily, slapping Lance's hand away. Lance retreated, eyes wide like he'd done something wrong.

Ugh, that damn puppy face again. Pietro resisted the urge to cross his long legs underneath himself and instead fixed Lance with a cool look.

Now it was Kitty's turn to glance back and forth between her two friends, puzzled by the abrupt change in mood. Ever the peacemaker, she sat up properly and reached for the remote.

"Tro, you skipped right past the _best_ movie. You didn't even pause!"

Apparently the ‘best movie' was Halloweentown; a cheesy flick on the Disney channel that Pietro had seen before; seasonally appropriate, but childish and dull.

Lance laughed when a grouchy ghost disappeared in a sauna’s steam. He scooted to the edge of the bed to see better, his bulky body automatically curving around Kitty's tiny one.

There was an innocence to the two, an easy delight in small pleasures. They'd spent most of the drive looking in wonder at the world around them, pointing at funny billboards and license plates and waving to dogs with their heads hanging out of car windows. The diner they'd supped at proclaimed to have "the best lemonade in the world!" And when they'd driven past the "Welcome to Ohio" sign, Lance whooped so loudly it made both of his companions jump.

"I've never been out of Illinois before," Lance had explained sheepishly, when they stared at him. So he whooped again, quieter this time.

Pietro had none of their high spirits. Ohio was nothing to write home about, unless you liked ventriloquist museums. And no matter how delicious a glass of lemonade claimed to be, it was still only lemonade.

He allowed that his bad mood had less to do with the state, and was more telling of his state of mind. He'd believed so hard that when he eventually returned to New York, it would be by Father's side; _not_ under the oppressive thumb of Charles Xavier.

That wasn't something he could explain to his friends, so he kept it to himself; working to be the same snarky, sarcastic Tro they knew and tolerated. That was harder to maintain in the more intimate confines of a hotel room than on the open roads, however.

Kitty snuggled her head under Lance's chin. He wrinkled his face when her hair tickled his nose, but otherwise didn't move. That same weird feeling in Pietro's chest spread like poisonous vines.

 _So what if they're too close?_ He scolded himself sternly. _It's your own fucking fault._

He was the one who'd spent years sabotaging Kitty's friendships with outsiders to secure her loyalty. He'd been the one to abandon her and Lance for months on end, pushing them together while pulling himself out of the picture. He had nobody to blame but himself.

_How was I to know it'd end up like this?!_

Lance's unexpected mutation, and the attention it had drawn from Xavier, changed everything. Pietro, quick as he was, still struggled to catch up.

_You shouldn't have kissed him._

He watched the way Lance and Kitty's faces mirrored one another as the movie continued. Concern creased their brows at the characters' peril. They smiled at the same jokes; laughed in eerie unison.

 _They'd have been okay together. They could still be happy_.

Had Pietro brought _anything_ good to their lives, or had he been ruining them all along?

"Can I sleep in here?" Kitty asked, when brightly colored commercials filled the screen. "I don't want to be all by myself."

"Sure," Lance yawned. His eyes looked heavy with sleep; he'd driven them for eight full hours, after all.

"Dibs on the first shower."

"That's fine. I'm too tired anyway."

The boys watched absently as she collected her pajamas and a toiletries bag from her luggage and slipped into the bathroom, hearing her patter around on tile floor before the sound of falling water masked her footsteps.

Lance sat up and stretched, pulling his shirt over his head and toeing his shoes off before raising his hips and wriggling out of his jeans, too.. Pietro had seen him perform those exact motions a thousand times or more, yet tonight the miles of bare brown skin made something in his chest give a little kick.

_Down, boy. Now’s not the time._

It was rather difficult to keep this mindset when a thick arm hooked around his waist and a warm mouth brushed his neck, prickly with stubble.

Pietro, disarmed, blinked. "Hi, there."

Lance's lips turned up in a smile against his skin. He hummed warmly. "You okay, Tro?" he asked. "You seem off."

"Just tired."

Lance kissed his cheek, then caught the pudge between his incisors and gave it a light nip. Pietro, flummoxed, gawked at him. "What the hell, Lancelot!"

"You have chubby cheeks. S'cute."

"And you have an oral fixation. Do you have to _bite_ everything?!"

Despite his words, Pietro felt an involuntary smile on his face. Lance was just too much of a dork, and he'd be lying if he said he _hated_ the affection. He actually squealed when Lance pressed his nose into his"chubby" cheek, nuzzling before pulling away with a leer so over the top it was practically cartoonish.

"Wanna explore my 'oral fixation' with me, baby?"

Okay, so maybe Pietro still had a few laughs in him. Lance was grinning wolfishly, quite pleased with himself at the peal of giggles Pietro released.

He tugged at the hem of Pietro's shirt. "Off?"

"Are we just gonna give Pryde the full show, then?"

"Oh, right." Lance considered. Shrugged. "She's been swimming with us before. Boxers aren't _that_ different from swim trunks."

Well, that was true. And Lance really was a furnace to snuggle with. Pietro lost his shirt, his jeans; folding them neatly and placing them on the nightstand between the two beds. Lance peeked at him, then quickly turned away again.

"You're bigger now," he noted, red coloring his ears. "I mean, you've. You've been working out?"

Pietro grinned, pleased that a beefcake like Lance would notice. "Maybe a little."

"Sorry about the leg thing earlier."

Pietro shrugged. "They're just really sensitive. You got me in a spot."

"Oh _really_?"

"Do _not_ raise your eyebrows at me like that, Alvers. I am a gentleman!"

Lance's deep laughter was drowned out by the sound of Kitty using the hairdryer.

Faking a haughty expression, Pietro gave a mock-offended, " _Hmph_!" and drew up the blankets on the bed, slipping between the cool sheets, pausing only to flick Lance sharply on one nipple.

Lance’s howl of betrayal made Pietro bite his own lip hard, stifling a laugh of his own, especially as Lance clutched at his chest like he'd been shot through the heart.

"Oh Pietro, my moon and stars! How _could_ you abuse me so!"

"You should have been in drama club with me. Your thespian spirit would’ve been appreciated."

"I think "thespian" is the one for girls. Isn't it just 'gay' for guys?"

"Lord, give me strength."

Pietro let out a soft "oof!" as Lance dropped on him, heavy as a brick wall, head a warm boulder on Pietro's chest. Lance's eyelashes were each a mile long as he blinked at him, sleepy and content.

_See? Happy! I make him happy!_

Pietro lightly stroked Lance's thick hair, pushing it back and scratching lightly at his scalp until Lance closed his eyes in bliss, tilting his face up to steal a soft kiss.

"Here's a secret," Lance mumbled, pulling back after just a moment, not quite meeting Pietro’s eyes. "I like you _so much_. I've loved you for so long that I forget what not loving you feels like."

He had to hear the way Pietro's heart skipped at that, with the way his ear was pressed right up against it. His thumb swathed an absent circle over Pietro's ribs.

The silence stretched as Pietro lowered a hand to rub Lance's back, knowing without looking where the scars were and how to avoid them. When he finally worked up the nerve to respond, Lance's breathing had evened out to the rise and fall of sleep.

There was a notepad and pen on the nightstand, meant for leaving messages to the hotel staff: _leave bed unmade; new towels, please._ Pietro reached for it, stretching awkwardly until he could slide the pen closer without disturbing Lance.

On it, he wrote in careful English: _I love you, too._

In a fragrant cloud of fruity shampoo, the bathroom door pushed open and Kitty emerged in a set of purple pajamas, her hair a long, glossy sheet of chocolate brown over one shoulder. She padded into the room and then abruptly stopped, regarding her two near-naked friends with surprise, then confusion.

Pietro returned her stare, awaiting judgement as her eyes travelled the scarred landscape of her crush’s back, and how her ex’s fingers stroked it.

Just as quietly, Kitty took a step back, then another, finally phasing out into the hallway, where she presumably returned alone to her room.

Pietro had forsaken his obsessive journaling. His loyalty to his father had evaporated like so much smoke in the face of this new turn in life, and he'd now taken on a new mantle to bear. But on that night, in that hotel room, Pietro wrote one final journal entry; one that would never be seen by anyone save for a very confused hotel maid the next morning, long after they had left.

 _Ich will ihn einfach sicher halten_ , Pietro scrawled onto the notepad, and then flipped it over and reached to turn off the lamp.

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 "Yeah, mom! We just made it into Pennsylvania. Yeah, it kinda _is_ colder up here. Yes, I have my jacket. Yes, we're being safe. Oh, Lance? I think he's still in the bathroom--"

Lance reached into the roadside phone booth to tap Kitty's shoulder, waving when she turned to regard him. Though her voice was bright and cheerful for her mother, she didn’t quite meet his eyes. "Never mind! He's right here. You wanna talk to him?"

A moment later, Kitty handed the big plastic telephone to Lance, squeezing past him as they traded places: him, in the booth and her, just outside. He spoke into the receiver. "Hello?"

"Hi, sweetheart!" Teresa Pryde's tinny voice, crackly from the bad connection, filled his ear. "How is the Jeep holding up? Are the new tires doing well?"

"It’s all great! We got to Pennsylvania and stopped for gas, just like we'd planned. How’re you guys?"

"I'm so glad to hear it… We’re doing well. We miss you already, though! It’s so strange, only setting two places at the dinner table..."

They chatted a minute, though Lance felt a bit paralyzed in the brain and mouth when Teresa signed off with, “We love you, dear.”

 “Um.” Who had _ever_ said that to him before, aside from Pietro after he’d been given the mix tape? And even _that_ had only been said in a moment of teasing. “Uh. Right back atcha!”

 He was still reeling as he hung up the phone and went inside the gas station, searching for his friends. They’d been behaving so strangely. Kitty had scarcely said a word to them through the hotel’s free breakfast or during the two hours they’d been driving since checking out.

He found Pietro near the front of the gas station, examining something shiny and metallic in the palm of his hand. Before Lance could get a good look at it, he shoved it in his pocket and kept walking down the aisle.

Lance frowned. They had no reason to steal anything on this trip. Charles had given Lance a hefty stack of cash to "get their affairs in order," an odd phrase that made Lance think of old movies where sickly rich people changed their wills just before dropping dead. He'd spent some of the money already, but they had plenty for the rest of the trip and then some.

Yet Pietro was still stealing? Strange.

Lance put it out of his mind. He couldn't very well call Pietro out on it here, with the station's attendant close enough to hear any words spoken. He instead looked for Kitty and found her in the medication aisle, examining a bottle of aspirin. Lance brightened immediately. So she just wasn't feeling well! That explained her odd behavior.

He braced an arm on the shelf above her head, leaning close. "Your mom misses you."

Kitty glanced up at him, then quickly away again, hair falling over her face. Lance reached to push it back, and frowned when his hand passed straight through her. 

"Hey," he said, gentling his tone. "What's the matter?"

"I'm getting all the chocolate milk and you can't stop me!" Pietro called from the refrigeration section, carrying an armload of bottles to the front counter.

Distracted, Lance laughed. "Hell, no! We can't drink all that!"

" _We_? I ain't sharing. Get your own! Oh wait, you can’t-- because I’m getting it all."

While the attendant was busy with Pietro, Kitty phased through Lance and out the other side, then kept walking. The strange tingles-- cold, like inhaling around a peppermint-- lingered like ripples through his torso for several moments, and he shivered before turning around to frown at her.

They were on a schedule, and after this pit stop they'd be on the road until they reached New York, so Lance sighed and walked around to the cart with all the coffee pots and paper travel cups. Black with two sugars, just like he liked it.

Pietro was waiting for him, his six bottles of chocolate milk and a family-sized bag of candy already at the counter. Lance rolled his eyes, but nodded when the cashier glanced at him, wondering whether to ring up the ridiculous purchase.

"Throw in two packs of Camels?" Lance impulsively requested, expecting to be carded and denied. But the cashier took one look at his face and either assumed he was eighteen already, or simply didn't care. The cigarettes were added to the purchase, and Lance felt a flare of smug satisfaction. Would requesting a bottle of the good whiskey be pushing his luck too far...?

Kitty, suddenly at his side, shoved her bottle of aspirin as well as a box of tampons onto the counter, and Lance felt his face heat in understanding. _Oh..._ 　

" _Really_ , Pryde?" Pietro snorted, and instantly Kitty’s posture went rigid. Slowly, she turned to scowl up at him with eyes that crackled electric blue fire. Lance took an involuntary step back.

"Yes, Maximoff, _really_ ," Kitty spat, sounding angrier than Lance had ever before heard her. "After being inside so many girls, you should probably have a basic understanding of how they work!"

The silence that followed was deafening. Their wide-eyed cashier hurriedly scanned and bagged Kitty's items, mumbling the price. As soon as he’d taken the bills from Lance’s hand, Kitty grabbed her bag and stomped across the street, over to the rest-stop that housed a single, unisex bathroom.

"Do you have to be such a dick?" Lance muttered to Pietro, who was doing his best to look indifferent. If Lance didn’t know him so well, he would have missed the flash of guilt in his eyes, quickly masked by indignation.

" _Me_? Whatever, man. She's just in a pissy mood."

They waited in the Jeep for Kitty’s return. She was still looking mutinous as she hopped into the backseat and curled up. When she cracked open her aspirin and shook two pills onto her palm, Pietro cautiously held a bottle of chocolate milk out to her. After a brief staredown, she accepted it.

Lance breathed a deep sigh of relief and pushed a new tape into the cassette player. The Beatles weren’t his scene, but Kitty liked them, and it was better than silence.

Pietro acted as navigator, occasionally consulting their road map, or the traffic radio. "Get in the left lane; there's an accident up ahead," he'd advise, or, "be ready for the on-ramp."

When Lance glanced in the rear-view mirror at Kitty, he saw that she'd fallen asleep, draped across the back seats with her head on her bag. He noticed the goosebumps on her arms and ticked the heater up, picking his careful way around potholes so as not to jostle her.

It was a dreary day; the sky coated in a layer of clouds so thick that the sun only weakly peeked through.

"Are you a virgin?" Pietro asked, and Lance nearly cricked his neck twisting to gawk at him. "Eyes on the road, please."

"What kind of a thing is that to ask?!" Lance retorted, flustered and all the more angry for it.

"Shh. Don't wake the hellcat. It's a yes or no question, Alvers."　

" _Yes_ , okay?! I don't know why it matters..."

Lance braced himself for the jeering sure to follow, but Pietro merely nodded, consulting his map as though indifferent to Lance’s discomfort. "So, you and Stacy never--?"

"No." Lance didn't like to think about it. "She tried a few times." She'd gotten pissed at him when he'd declined. Offended, even. There’d been some shouted arguments, involving phrases like, “ _Do you think I’m ugly or something?!_ ” and, “ _All guys are supposed to want it, so what’s wrong with you?!_ ”

"Couldn't get it up?"

"Don't be gross! I just... I didn't _want_ to. I told you before... That sort of stuff doesn't work for me if I'm... If I don't love someone. Laugh if you want; I don't give a shit."

But Pietro didn't laugh. He merely looked thoughtful. Lance chewed his lip and struggled with his thoughts for a mile or so, working up the courage to voice the one insecurity that had been lingering in his mind, overshadowing all his interactions with his friends like clouds blocking the sun.

"Have you and Kitty ever...?"

"No."

The relief was as immediate as it was immense, though Lance couldn't properly explain it away. Sure, he was glad Kitty hadn't been swept up by Pietro's playboy ways, but was there more to it? Now that he'd asked that one question, all the rest began to awaken. "How about... With a guy?"

"Also no. Not yet."

Lance's face _burned_. All the half-serious flirting from the night before withered in midday openness. They were both beginners in one thing, at least.

"One more question."

"Fine, but then you'll owe me a secret. You got your freebie already, greedy."

How to even word this? Everything he tried out in his head sounded so stupid, so cliche. He bit the bullet, cringing at himself all the while. "What _are_ we?"

When Pietro tilted his head, the sunlight reflected from his silver hair, briefly blinding Lance. His palms began to sweat when he realized Pietro was staring at him, something of a hawk in his intelligent gaze.

"Mutant minors? Wards of the state? Underprivileged, at-risk youth?"

"Pietro."

"What do you want me to say, Alvers? Want me to call us _boyfriends_? Say we're gonna get married and live happily ever after in a castle by the sea?" The derision in his voice was scathing.

"I just want you to tell me the truth. Am I special to you? Will you dump my ass the next time some pretty girl looks your way? Because that would seriously fuck me up, so I need to be prepared."

Asking this felt forbidden; terrifying, like opening himself up for rejection. He'd never felt _afraid_ of Pietro before, but just now he’d handed him some dangerous weapons and showed him where to aim. As the silence grew it nurtured Lance’s anxiety, until he nearly jumped out of his skin when Pietro spoke.

"You mean _everything_ to me." Pietro snarled with biting ferocity, scowling daggers out the window. "You're the only thing left in this rotten _fucking_ world that matters at all anymore. What did you call me, back at the foster’s house?"

Lance cleared his throat. He still felt shy and uncertain about that little slip; had hoped Pietro would forget it. "I, uh. I called you ‘mine,’ but if you're not cool with that, it’s--"

"You're _mine_ ," Pietro interrupted.

The flood of violent sensation shot through Lance's system was like the best, hottest whiskey, traveling down his chest and fast up his spine, spreading sideways along his arms and legs and finally firing his brain up to blazes. He unconsciously pressed his foot harder on the accelerator and the engine roared in harmony with his soul. He was addicted in a heartbeat.

" _Yes_ ," he agreed hoarsely, throat dry, hands shaking.

 Pietro gave a sharp nod and slumped back in his seat. "Are we done with the stupid questions now?"

Lance was so high on the last answer that he could scarcely espond. He merely stared ahead, noticing too late that he was driving well over a eighty miles per hour and quickly losing control of the rattly old Jeep. With a guilty glance back at Kitty, still sleeping in the backseat, he reduced his speed to an acceptable crawl.

Silence resumed, until Pietro glanced back down at his map. "Take this next exit," he commanded, and Lance obeyed.

жж

They argued for some time about whether they could expect dinner at the mansion. A combination of hunger, a lack of knowledge on Xavier’s meal schedules, and a desire for the journey to continue a little longer made the decision for them. They pulled into a warmly-lit Mexican restaurant just beyond the border to New York state.

Kitty about threw herself from the Jeep and sprinted for the bathroom the moment the vehicle was idle. Lance had no experience at nice sit-down restaurants, so he shyly stood back and let Pietro talk to the hostess.

When she led them to a booth and Pietro casually sat like he this sort of thing all the time, Lance was quick to slide in right next to him. He crouched defensively at Pietro’s side, protecting him from... He didn't know what, exactly. Strangers? Ambiguity?

Pietro gave him a knowing smile, then dropped his head onto Lance's shoulder. Immediately, Lance felt most of his wariness fade to background noise. It came naturally as breathing, to press his lips against the side of Pietro's head.

"You surprise me," Pietro commented, idly playing with the silverware already on the table, wrapped in cloth-- cloth!-- napkins. "Macho guy like you? You aren't afraid someone will give you shit for being a big ol' homo?"

Lance snorted. That was the _last_ thing he was worried about. "I can cause earthquakes with my brain. You think I give a shit what anyone thinks?" _Anyone but you, anyway._

Pietro's mouth flattened into a straight line, parallel with his eyebrows-- his frog face, the one that meant that he was thinking hard. "Lance, we're not the only ones of us, you know?"

"I know. We're going to a whole school of 'em, right?"

"Right. And they'll have more training than you. They might not be stronger than you, but they know how to use what they have. And--"

Oh, Pietro was worried about him! It made Lance smile, feeling loved. "Don't worry," he promised, meaning every word. "I'll always keep you safe."

That thing the old man, Charles, had said-- _you will never be this boy's hero_ \-- twanged in Lance’s brain like a false cord spoiling a perfect rift. He'd been thinking about that off and on near constantly, still deeply unsettled by being forced to move against his will.

Pietro had pegged him a hero almost from day one; had been the one to plant the idea in Lance's mind. Until Pietro had _called_ him a hero, Lance hadn't known that was what he wanted to be. What did some old fogey like Charles know, anyway?

Kitty rejoined them just as the server brought chips with salsa and took their drink orders. Lance's shoulders stiffened when she looked at how close her friends were sitting-- _Okay; I care about what she thinks, too --_ but after a moment she dropped her gaze and reached for a chip.

"So," she said, scooping chunky salsa from the little serving bowl. "Are we ever gonna talk about this?"

She gestured with her free hand between the two boys, and Lance's heart knocked uncomfortably against his ribs. So she'd noticed. Of course she had. Kitty was pretty damn observant sometimes.

"What's to say?" Pietro asked, a note of challenge in his voice. Internally, Lance sighed. It was one thing for Pietro to be prickly towards the rest of the world, but to _Kitty_?

"We're... Together," Lance explained hesitantly, and it only made his heart slam all the harder. What if he was wrong? What if Pietro didn't want it to be stated so bluntly? What if--

"For how long?" Kitty's mouth was looking pinched; displeased. Was she mad that Lance was dating her ex, if 'dating' was even the word for what they were doing?

"Since the school parking lot," Pietro said, and Lance relaxed at the confirmation. It was as good a starting point as any, though he felt a part of himself had been Pietro's all along.

Just like with her shockingly bold outburst in the gas station, the darkness in her eyes shook something in Lance. This wasn't the Kitty he knew. His Kitty was sweet; bubbly; bright. She was happy-go-lucky, always up for a good time. What had happened?

"Please don't mess this up," Kitty said, finally. "I mean it when I say that I love you both. I need us to be together, okay? I _need_ my friends to have my back, especially now with so much crazy stuff going on. Are we still cool?"

Lance felt a rush of love for the girl. Was that all she was worried about? It was an understandable concern. He reached across the table and took her little hand, still cold from holding a glass of water. "We're cool," he promised, and nudged Pietro in the side.

"Sure, Pipsqueak. The three musketeers," he said with minimal sarcasm.

Their waitress returned, and Lance jolted in his seat. He'd entirely forgotten that he was in a public place; a restaurant full of people and chatter, Mariachi music pumping through hidden speakers in time with the clink of forks on plates. It was so easy, in general, to forget that other people existed outside of his intimate, three-person friendship.

"What can I get you kids tonight?" she asked, pulling a notepad from her apron pocket, poised to take their order. Because Lance was on the end closest to her, he was the one she first looked at expectantly. _Shit._ Lance had forgotten to even read the menu.

He released Kitty’s hand and gripped the glossy booklet before him, frantically flipping through the laminated pages with his heart stalling at the prices. Was food really this expensive in New York?

Pietro spoke without a moment's pause, smooth as silk. "I want two orders of number four; extra beans, extra rice, and he wants two green corn enchiladas, sauce on the side. Can you get him some extra rice, too?"

Lance gave him a grateful smile, sagging a little against his side. What would he ever do without Pietro? He didn’t even know what a green corn enchilada was, but he knew without a doubt that he’d love it.

From the corner of his eye, he saw that Kitty was frowning again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ich will ihn einfach sicher halten = "I just want to keep him safe."  
> (As written by my German-speaking (ex) boss, so if I got it wrong, I'm sorry.) - Mugs


	3. Spirited Away

**Part Three, Chapter 3: Spirited Away**

жж

Xavier’s mansion was strangely difficult to find, once they’d finally reached Bayville and started driving further and further east.

"Why'd you take that turn?" Pietro asked confusedly, when Lance found himself down yet another Suburban neighborhood close to a high school. "I told you to keep going straight."

"I took a turn?" Lance glanced down at his gloved hands gripping the steering wheel. He'd only just _blinked_ …

From the back seat, Kitty gave a hum of understanding. "More of Xavier's smoke and mirrors?"

Pietro had arrived at the same conclusion. "Lance, you must be really susceptible to his shit. Pull over."

Lance did as asked, still wracking his brains for a new understanding of the past few seconds. What had _happened_? Had he driven into a pocket of Xavier's influence? Was it a conscious choice on the old man's part, or just a standing geis to keep his property private?

When Pietro slid from the Jeep, Lance followed suit, gravel crunching under his heels. They swapped places: Pietro, driving, and Lance, crunched into the passenger seat, long legs uncomfortably close to his chest. He knew Pietro didn't have a driver's license; suspected the younger boy had never driven before in his life, but didn't question his decision. Pietro was brilliant and picked up skills by observation.

"Still got those cigarettes?" Pietro asked, gliding seamlessly back onto the road. Glad for something to do, Lance grabbed a carton and his lighter from the glove box. He tapped a cig into his palm and pinned it between his lips as he lit up.

When he rolled the window down to exhale, he saw that the suburban neighborhood had become a long field of tall grass; apparently not even being used as farmland. Since when did New York have this kind of empty space?

"The _fuck_?" he muttered, twisting around to see where the road and the other drivers had gone. Pietro squeezed his leg comfortingly.

"Home, sweet home," the other boy muttered wryly, and Lance was reminded that Pietro had spent years of his childhood in this strange, liminal space.

Something old twisted in Lance's heart; memories, mostly forgotten, triggered by the taste of smoke. He’d once sat in Dex's bed as the other boy smoked; cigarettes or a joint, it didn't matter; it was just a prop for the storytelling process.

"Fairies, man; they'll fuck you up every time," the older boy had confidently told child-Lance, lounging impressively in his top bunk with a leg slung over the railing, foot swaying like a leopard's tail. "They'll crack open your window at night and slither into your bed and spirit you far, far away... Lure you out with music and dancing and lights and love..."

He'd pause to take a relishing drag, lips pursed to direct a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling where it lingered in a perpetual bluish miasma and once set the fire alarm off, when someone finally remembered to change the batteries.

"And what _happens_ after they lure you away?!" little Lance had gasped; electrified, hanging onto his idol's every word.

Dex's ghoulish smile never failed to elicit a shiver; a delicious thrill; an acute slice of fear. He'd pause and let the tension stretch like taffy, waiting until Lance's eyes grew wide as saucers, and then--

"Nobody knows. Maybe they'll make you their slave, or fire you up with carrots and potatoes into a fat-little-boy feast. Maybe they'll force you to dance and sing for them until your feet break and your throat bleeds. But maybe, just _maybe_ , you'll find a happiness you've never known in their lands."

Now that he wasn't the one driving, Lance was free to look his fill at Pietro, studying his sharp chin and bright eyes, his lips turned down at the edges whenever he wasn't forcing his face to tell a wordless story.

He was so pretty. It was such a relief to be able to _admit_ that to himself, after so long tiptoeing around the thought. Cold as ice and twice as untouchable... yet softened, always, by those little freckles Lance loved so dearly. Lance wanted to kiss them all until he'd discovered each one; until Pietro had no choice but to smile.

Lance’s forgotten cigarette ashed into his lap, and Pietro smirked when he swore and brushed it away, staining his vest and fingers.

"Nice, Lancelot."

"Fuck off, Tro."

At least some things never changed.

When Lance again looked up, a sprawling estate that had _not_ been on the horizon moments ago now loomed before them. He gasped, almost too overwhelmed to continue feeling surprise for anything anymore.

“Oh, _wow_ ,” Kitty breathed, pressing forward until she leaned over Lance’s seat to peer out the window. The place was unquestionably lovely, timeless and somehow calling to mind eras long past: plantations, castles; old money given free reign to sink deep roots.

The grounds were extensive, populated with sycamores and maples winding organically before and behind a wrought iron gate as tall as two Lances stacked on top of one another. The grass and shrubbery was at once both tended and a little overgrown. The contradictions were endless: it was wild and tame, magical and mundane, eclectic and utilitarian. The more Lance tried to understand it, the more his head began to throb.

Finally he closed his eyes and let Pietro drive them up the winding gravel path all the way to the gate. He kept them closed when Pietro rolled down the window and leaned his head out to speak: “Pietro Maximoff, Lance Alvers, and Katherine Pryde; here by invitation of Charles Xavier.”

There was a pause, a mechanical click, and an impressively soft whirr as the mammoth gate parted to admit them. Lance peeked from between his lashes just long enough to see the ornate 'stone' gargoyles guarding the gate shiver and fall still.

"What the _fuck_ ," Lance whispered again, but neither of his friends responded.

Pietro drove a quarter of a mile up the path, then was abruptly stopped by a stout figure in jeans and a biker jacket, approaching from the shadows. A grizzled man looking to be anywhere from thirty to fifty years old rapped his knuckles on the windshield, and again Pietro rolled down his window.

"If I'm not mistaken," Pietro said, voice confident, though Lance noticed his hand was still resting warily on the gear-shift stick. "You must be the Wolverine."

Lance wasn't too terribly fond of pot-- the few times he'd indulged, he'd hardly felt any effects at all aside from a general lethargy-- but just now he felt a joint might make this surreal experience more palatable.

The very short, scruffy man snorted derisively; gruff and to the point. "You reek of metal, kid."

Rather than take offense to the bizarre personal comment, Pietro only smirked. "It's in the blood."

"So I've heard. Like father, like son?"

Apparently, Pietro had no response for this. After a moment of silence, 'the Wolverine' snorted again, giving a quick shake of the head. "Only time will tell. Come on; out. I'll park the jalopy for ya."

Lance opened his mouth to protest. It was one thing for Pietro to drive Dex’s Jeep, but a complete stranger looking straight off the set of _Seven Brides for Seven Brothers_? That was really pushing it.

Kitty’s hand squeezing his wrist silenced him. Lance grudgingly climbed out, watching as Pietro went back to grab Kitty’s luggage and tossed Lance’s garbage bag of clothes at him. Lance slung it over one shoulder and carefully took the handle of his precious guitar.

The Wolverine watched him with keen animal eyes, then stepped close-- closer than was polite for strangers. Lance resisted the urge to shy away as the man’s hooked nose flared; inhaling. _Sniffing_ him.

“Hm,” was all he said, and then moved to repeat the process with Kitty, who was far closer to his height. On instinct Lance crowded in front of her, cutting off the weird man’s access.

“Where do we go?” Lance asked, and for the first time the Wolverine offered a bright slash of a smile, his canines white and long. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing up the path. “Right up to the front doors, Ringo. One’a the kids’ll let you in.”

Juggling the guitar, the bag, and his hold on Kitty's shoulder, Lance crossed to Pietro's side, watching the man climb into his Jeep. As he did, it sagged on its axles as though under an enormous weight. How much could the guy possibly weigh? He was muscular, sure, but small...

"You know him?" Lance asked, watching as his Jeep puttered off the path and around the side of the mansion, presumably to some sort of garage.

"I know _of_ him. Logan whoever-the-fuck… Howlett. Logan _Howlett_. War hero; lone wolf; ancient stuff of legends; blah blah blah." Pietro considered a moment. "Father talked about him, sometimes. Wanted him on our side, but knew we’d never get him.”

_‘Our’ side? ‘We’?_

"But he's working for Charles?"

"Looks like it. Charles owns most of the mutants worth knowing, at this point. He’s got a real talent for figuring out whatever price will buy them."

Kitty squirmed in Lance's grasp, reaching to push his hand away. "Lance, you're hurting me."

Lance checked his white-knuckled grip, quickly withdrawing. "Shit. Sorry."

He didn't reach for her again, but kept close, shepherding her between his body and Pietro’s as they finished their journey on foot, dusk having slipped into night while their backs were turned.

The world smelled different here, Lance noticed. Like salt-- presumably from the nearby bay of the town's namesake-- and cinnamon.

The latter was revealed to be the strong scent of baking wafting from enormous screened windows, from which a welcoming, butter-yellow light spilled over the grounds. Despite the incredible size of the windows, he could see nothing on the other side; not even when they climbed the large stone steps to the front door. They must have been tinted, somehow.

Kitty, the only one among them with a free hand, stretched on her toes to reach the iron doorknocker, shaped like a gargoyle to match the gate. The sound of her knocking was deep and booming in a seemingly endless, hollow echo.

"Creepy," she muttered, and fidgeted with the laces of her hoodie.

On the other side of the door, Lance heard the very familiar sound of teenagers shouting. It was too muffled to make out what, exactly, they were saying, but Lance got the general gist: _"Get the door!" "Why do_ I _always have to get it?!"_

At last the double-doors swung open. Lance took a step forward, then stopped, his jaw dropping in raw surprise.

"You must be the newbies!" greeted a petite, jeans-and-t-shirt clad boy covered from head to toe in blue fur. His golden eyes gleamed like coins under the light of a low-hanging chandelier. His legs were hocked like a goat’s, and his whiplike tail lashed behind him, skimming the floor. Despite the utter impossibility of his appearance, his fanged smile looked very friendly. "I'm Kurt! Come in; come in!"

Kitty and Lance locked eyes, and Lance saw that she was just as shocked as he felt. Over her head, Lance saw Pietro smirking at them both, clearly enjoying their reaction. Pietro turned a dazzlingly brilliant smile on the boy; the sort only someone as pretty as Pietro could pull off. "I recognize _that_ accent. Sprechen Sie Deutsch?"

This was apparently so exciting that Kurt's long tail lashed again, knocking clutter from the entryway table. "Ja!" He pressed close, hands resting on Pietro's arm. Hands that, Lance observed, had only two clawed fingers and one thumb each. "Winzeldorf?"

Pietro's smile dimpled. "Munich."

From deeper in the mansion an irritated female voice shouted, "Let them in, Kurt! It's cold outside!"

"Anything that’s not the inside of a volcano is cold to _you,_ Amara," laughed another girl.

Kurt fixed his unsettling, glowing eyes on Pietro's mute companions, and Pietro patted his shoulder consolingly. "Ignore them. They've never met anyone visibly mutated before. They'll get over themselves in a minute."

Kurt laughed; a chittering sound that brought to mind a Capuchin monkey. “I’m used to that. Usually I keep my disguise on while meeting newbies, but I guess I forgot!”

What _possible_ disguise could hide every abnormal thing about such a person? Now that the initial shock was fading, Lance was better able to fake a semblance of normalcy. So the guy was fuzzy; so what? Lance knew from a childhood in the foster system that first impressions were vital. If he didn’t immediately establish himself as top dog, he’d have a hell of a time fighting his way up the pack.

He let himself in without being invited, deliberately bumping into the smaller boy as he passed and followed the smell of baking. Despite its mammoth size, the mansion had a fairly standard setup: kitchen, dining room, living room, and bathroom all within reasonable distance from the front door.

The place was decked out for the upcoming holiday, though Lance couldn't imagine any trick-or-treaters stumbling their way out here. Jack-o'-Lanterns sneered at him from every flat surface; stringed lights filled the hallway; a plastic skeleton bade him to "Watch his step!" as he passed.

The kitchen continued the mansion's theme of being excessive. Lance suspected he could easily fit inside either of the chrome ovens. Rather than poking around, he went straight to where a cluster of girls cackled over a mixing bowl.

"Tabby, _stop_! You’re ruining my home ec project!"

"Never stop! More cinnamon! Anarchy!"

"Tabitha _Smith_! I mean it!"

There were teenagers present; a multi-pierced blonde with a wicked smile (Tabby); the dark-skinned, soft-eyed girl scolding her; a drop-dead gorgeous redhead hiding a giggle behind her hand; and a sullen goth standing just apart from the rest.

Lance surveyed the mess; the batter-filled bowls and utensils and baking pans; the counter groaning under the weight of all manner of pies and cakes and cookies. Before the warm oven dozed a russet dog so large that Lance's mind supplied the word 'wolf' to describe it, before thinking better of it. A _real_ wolf wouldn't be allowed inside... Would it?

"Got enough goodies to share?" he asked, propping himself up against the walk-in refrigerator with a cocky grin on his face.

All four of the girls and the dog turned to look at him, and he felt his grin grow. They were _cute_. Especially the redhead. What a knockout! Not that he'd try anything, of course, but it improved the atmosphere considerably. "Hey."

The goth girl swept dual-toned hair from her eyes and regarded him, pointedly unimpressed. "Are you Kitty?"

This stumped Lance. "Do I _look_ like a 'Kitty'?"

"Well, you've got some whiskers going on," Tabby smirked, reaching to poke him in the cheek with one frosting-covered finger. "Somebody needs a shave."

She seemed good-natured, so Lance allowed the teasing. "I'm Lance."

"Ooh, the earthshaker!" the dark-skinned girl appraised. She wiped her hand off on her apron before offering it to Lance. "I'm Amara. You're gonna want to talk to Scott; he's your roommate."

Lance mentally filed that tidbit away, giving Amara's hand a quick shake. Her skin wasn’t just warm but seriously _hot,_ like holding a freshly poured mug of tea. "You've heard of me, huh?"

"Heard you busted up your school," snarked the goth. She had a thick Southern twang going on.

"Rogue!" the redhead chastised. "That's not polite."

"Whatever." Rogue rolled her eyes and stepped around the confection-laden island to the dining area, flopping backwards into a breakfast nook with only her legs sticking out.

The redhead turned back to Lance, and he tried not to be too dazzled by her smile. "Don't mind her," she laughed airily. "Rogue tends to be prickly. I think she's upset about having to share her room now, but you're going to be _very nice_ to Kitty, aren't you Rogue?"

The last bit was directed the goth girl’s way, and garnered no more response than an irritated huff of breath.

Turning back to Lance, the redhead met his gaze, staring with an intensity that would have been alarming were her eyes not so distractingly _pretty_ ; a sparkling glass-green Lance couldn't quite look away from. He felt, abruptly, very calm; loose-limbed and easy; as relaxed as he might be lying in the forest clearing with Pietro by his side. He could almost smell the moss, the rain, the little purple flowers...

"Hey!" Tabby snapped indignantly, and elbowed the taller girl in the side. "None of that. Hank said no more powers in the kitchen, Miss Priss!"

"No; he said that _you_ weren't allowed to _blow anything up_ in the kitchen." The redhead looked irritated. Lance, slightly dizzy, shook his odd mood off and took a hasty step back.

"Well if I can't use my stuff, then you sure as hell can't use yours to dig around in boys' heads… Not without sharing all the juicy secrets you find, anyway."

Lance, confused, met Rogue's gaze. Her purple-painted lips silently formed the words " _Go while you still can!_ "

Heeding her advice, he crept back from the kitchen. How could he fight for hierarchy here when he didn't know the first thing about how status worked among girls, let alone _mutant_ girls? He didn’t think he could physically fight them for his share of food and attention… Could he?

He ran into Kitty and Pietro in the hallway. "Your roommate's in the kitchen," he informed Kitty. "She's kind of grumpy, but I think she's okay."

Kitty brightened, looking her usual bubbly self. She reached excitedly to take her bags from Pietro. "I'd better go meet and greet, then!"

Lance made to follow her, to ensure everything was okay, but Pietro pulled him back by the shoulders. "She'll never make friends with you babysitting her, Alvers," the other boy warned.

Lance frowned at him. "I always watch out for her.” He'd never forgotten the promise he'd made to Carmen Pryde, though that had been years ago.

"So watch from afar. Come _on,_ she doesn't want you guard-dogging her here. It's her first time away from home. Let her have fun."

Lance wanted to insist that Kitty needed more guarding now than ever, in this strange place with these strange people. But something he'd once been told by a girl in a burgundy gown resurfaced in his memory: _You scare all her friends away. You just won't leave her alone._

He wanted Kitty to have friends, right?

Pietro took advantage of Lance's distraction by grabbing his hand, tugging him further up the hallway. "Come on, I'll show you where the guys' rooms are. We'll scare your roommate away and take over."

Lance grinned as he followed. _That_ was the Pietro he knew and loved. He twisted his hand in Pietro's grasp until there was enough room to lace their fingers, and knew Pietro had noticed by his little smile.

They made it up one flight of stairs and into yet another hallway. The bracketed wall-lights spaced every few feet gave a pleasant glow to the oil paintings and cherry-wood floors. It was as far from the drafty Round Table boarding house as it was possible to get, and Lance grew dizzy at the unending realization that this was his _home_ now.

"Mr. Maximoff?" A rich female voice had them both turning to see an impressively tall black woman with silken white hair in an eye-catching mohawk, at striking odds with her business-casual outfit. There was something regal and dignified in her posture; her knowing blue eyes.

"Your majesty!" Pietro breathed, dropping Lance’s hand, and Lance looked at him sharply, wondering what new game this was. He couldn't recall Pietro ever speaking to anyone with such deference before, going so far as to bow his head. “I didn’t know I’d be meeting you here.”

The woman laughed, deep and warm. She approached, walking with a self-assuredness seldom seen outside of red carpets, and reached to tuck a knuckle under Pietro's chin, lifting his face. "Oh, I don't go by such titles nowadays. People here call me by my name."

Pietro looked unconvinced. "But you’re a queen!" he argued.

"Not to these children." There was a hint of warning to her voice now. "To them, I am a professor; a mentor; a friend. I prefer to keep it that way." She had a faint accent, though Lance couldn't place its origins.

Indecision warred in Pietro's eyes for only a moment before smoothing out. "Alright," he agreed, and just like that, shed his reverent demeanor as easily as he did everything else. He was nothing if not adaptable. "Ororo."

Ororo smiled brightly and withdrew her hold. "Charles wants to see you. You do remember where the library is, yes?"

Pietro nodded jerkily, and turned for the second set of stairs just a few feet beyond. Lance made to follow, but the woman who might have been a queen caught his arm. "Just Pietro for now, Mr. Alvers," she said kindly. “I’ll show you to your room.”

Pietro was already halfway up the stairs before he turned back, looking down at the two. "What does he have on you? How did he get you?"

There was nothing but genuine confusion in his voice, though Lance didn't understand the question at all.

Ororo studied the teenager for a long moment, her fingers absently tapping Lance's arm as though forgetting she was holding him, and not some random piece of furniture. "Some of us are here by choice," she explained. "I like my job. I like working with young mutants.”

"But my father--"

"Your father had nothing to offer that would bring me any joy." Her voice was firm now. Not angry, but chilly. Her hand fell away from Lance's arm as she turned her back. "Go on, now."

Lance had quite forgotten he was meant to follow until she was halfway down the hall. She stopped expectantly by a painting of some fruit in a bowl and Lance hastened after her, though not without glancing once more at Pietro's retreating back.

"What was that all about?" he asked, and Ororo fixed him with a tight smile. She was so tall that she stood eye-to-eye with Lance, who himself had recently hit 6’3.

"Don't you worry. Some family matters just aren't meant for outsiders."

Lance wanted to argue that he was no _outsider;_ that Pietro was the closest thing to family he would ever have. It was only the knowledge that he couldn’t properly argue with a _queen_ that stilled his tongue.

She distracted him by saying, "Pietro and Katherine have physical powers, so Hank will be their mentor. But your powers are environmental, so you'll be answering to me. My quarters are in the Northmost tower-- a bit of a hike, I'll grant you, but it boasts the best view in the entire estate."

"Oh..." What to say to that? "What, um. What are your 'powers'? Are you like me?"

That enigmatic smile was back. "Me? I'm just a weather witch."

Every piece of information only amplified his questions, but Lance knew a dismissal when he heard one. Past experience had taught him that badgering grown-ups for answers was a good way to get himself slapped. "Okay. Cool."

"Come see me tomorrow," she advised. "We'll get you fitted for a uniform. You are seventeen?"

"In a few days," Lance agreed, wondering what sort of uniform he'd need. The girls in the kitchen were all dressed in regular outfits...

"A junior in high school?"

Lance nodded.

"We'll get you enrolled at Bayville high; first thing in the morning."

This stopped Lance in his tracks. "I still have to go to public school?! I thought this _was_ a school."

"This is training; housing; socialization with peers. A supplement. Charles believes that when mutantkind is outed to the general public, it's best  we put our best faces forward as law-abiding citizens. Doctors; lawyers; parents and teachers... You can't do that without a proper education."

Lance soured at the idea. He'd never particularly enjoyed school, and to hear that after all he’d been through in the past few days, he was still expected to attend...!

He didn't have long to pout. Ororo had reached the door she was looking for, and raised her hand to knock. "Scott?"

It took only a moment for the room's occupant to answer. He was a fair-skinned teenager roughly Lance's height and age; so similar in build they could have swapped wardrobes, though Lance would never in a million years wear such fussy khakis and sweater-vest. He was handsome in a generic Disney prince sort of way, though the effect was spoiled by the wraparound sunglasses he wore, lenses colored the deep red of fresh blood.

Lance made two immediate judgements about his new roommate: One; that he was the unofficial boss of the house, and two; that he had a stick jammed so far up his ass it was nigh-impossible to bend. He hated him on sight.

Scott offered Lance a hand to shake, giving him a politician's smile. "Lance Alvers, welcome! I’m Scott Summers. I hear you can generate seismic waves?"

Lance ignored the hand and shoved past him into the room, glancing around. There were two neatly-made twin beds on opposite sides of the room; two wardrobes; two desks; two side-tables. It was practically a palace compared to where he'd grown up.

The north half was filled with personal possessions; textbooks and photographs and clothes, a varsity jacket hanging from the desk chair. Lance's gaze immediately fell on a set of car keys beside three pairs of glasses, all red like the ones Scott wore now, but in different styles. Goggles; shades... A sleep mask?

Snorting, Lance threw his garbage bag onto the bed by the window and flopped down after it, crossing his dirty boots on the coverlet. God, he was tired. Two days of driving had worn him out.

"I'll leave you boys to get acquainted," Ororo smiled, and let herself out, closing the door.

Scott regarded Lance from the doorway before crossing the room to his desk, pulling out the chair and sitting. He clasped his hand between his knees.

"So!" he said brightly, and everything inside Lance snarled, writhing and retreating from this guy.

He sounded like a social worker; one of the fresh-faced yuppies the government used to send after him to make sure he was eating enough; getting clothes and school supplies and baths; that he wasn't being beaten. They _said_ they wanted to help, but their criticisms only ever made his caregivers angry enough to take it out on Lance behind closed doors. In the end, they never changed anything at all. _Fake, fake, fake._

"Illinois, huh?" Scott asked, still trying to make conversation. "I've never been. What's the weather like?"

When Lance continued ignoring him, he cleared his throat and reached into his desk drawer, pulling out a sheaf of paperwork. "I have your, uh. Schedule. We're up at six and then we take a jog around the lake; before showers... Breakfast at seven... Oh, I'd better walk you through the emergency plans while I'm at it. In case of fire, we meet at the lake. In case of attack, we--"

Lance reached into his garbage bag and pulled out his Walkman, shoving the headphones over his ears and clicking the ‘play’ button before closing his eyes. His racing heart was instantly soothed by Cobain's rasping voice, personal and intimate.

" _I'm so ugly, but that's okay, 'cuz so are you..._ "

When his blood pressure had gone down, when he knew he wouldn't snap and quake Summers through the wall, he reached for his pack of Camels and lighter, shoving the curtains on the window aside to nudge it open a crack.

The night outside was pitch-dark, but the grounds far below were softly illuminated by outdoor lighting, marking various paths both stone and grass. Something long and gray caught his attention, and he frowned, studying it. A landing strip? Did Charles have his own _airplane_?

"You can't smoke in here!" Lance heard Summers protest behind him, voice muffled by the music. He cranked the volume up as high as it would go and, holding the cigarette in his mouth, spun the dial of his lighter. Some boys at the Round Table house liked to light fires for fun; just little things at abandoned buildings, or out in the woods. Lance had never really seen the appeal, but now...

He held the edge of his thumbnail against the white flame, feeling his skin heat and then singe.

The bedroom door opened. Lance couldn't hear it, but felt the change in air quality. He turned to see Pietro in the doorway and, as always, felt his heart give a jump before resuming its natural rhythm. He grinned around the cigarette, then frowned when he noticed the stormy look in Pietro's eyes. What had Charles wanted from him?

He removed his headphones to ask just that, but Pietro wasn’t looking at him.

"So," Pietro said casually, leaning against the doorframe. He ignored Lance entirely and instead flicked his eyes up and down Scott's tall frame, blatantly slipping across his broad chest, his narrow waist. "Who was _that_ ginger piece of ass in the kitchen?"

Lance almost dropped his cigarette.

It was hard to tell behind Scott's tinted sunglasses, but by the stillness to his posture, Lance imagined he was blinking rapidly. "Excuse me?" He asked. "Are you talking about Jean?"

"Do names really matter?"

When Pietro wanted to be inscrutable, he succeeded. Lance couldn't for the life of him figure out what the other boy was playing at. And neither, apparently, could Scott.

"Maybe you'd prefer to know her as 'valedictorian,' or 'statewide women's soccer champion,' ‘karate black belt,’ or 'dual-mutated with both telepathy and telekinesis.' Also, my best friend and girlfriend."

Ooh; touchy subject. Pietro had really struck a nerve; and on his first try, too. He was always good at finding the absolute worst thing to say; had a real knack for kicking people low when he wanted to.

He was nodding along to Scott's listing of Jean's accomplishments. "Just so long as I _get_ to 'know' her, man," he laughed, sounding very unlike himself. Then he leered toothily. "Tell me: Does the carpet match the drapes? Love me a natural redhead."

Lance couldn't help himself: he laughed. Pietro was so bad sometimes, and Scott’s gaping mouth was kind of hilarious. With Scott rendered unable to verbalize any kind of response, Pietro's grin grew.

"Not sharing? Oh, well. Guess I'll have to settle for your roommate."

He zipped to the bed in a blur of silver and knocked Lance back so forcefully the slamming wooden headboard made the whole wall shudder, plucking the cigarette from his mouth before kissing him aggressively, all teeth and snarled laughter.

Lance floundered, hands sliding automatically into that soft silver hair. It became the easiest thing in the world to match him kiss for enthusiastic kiss, though Pietro's theatrical moaning had him rolling his eyes.

It was over quickly enough. Scott, muttering darkly, grabbed some of his belongings and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. And just like that Pietro rolled off of Lance, staring up at the ceiling and laughing with a kiss-swollen mouth.

"That was fun."

Lance wiped his mouth and regarded his friend. "You took it pretty far."

"Oh, shut up Alvers. It worked, didn't it?"

It had; Lance couldn't deny that. But--

"He'll be back."

"Not for long. I told Charles I _would_ room with you, and that he couldn't stop me."

"And he just... Agreed to that?" Sure, Pietro had a talent for getting his way, but...

The laugh left Pietro's face. Something bitter flashed in his eyes for a hint of a moment as he reached to idly thumb a wrinkle in the cornflower-patterned wallpaper. "I'm the goose that lays the silver eggs, Lancelot. He'll give me anything I want."

Lance wanted to question what Pietro meant by such a thing. It nested atop a whole mountain of other questions, like whether Pietro had known they would still be attending school, or what Ororo’s being a queen entailed, or how many different kinds of mutants there were.

But then Pietro rolled over to look at him, and Lance found himself lost in that familiar face he loved so much it ached. A face he was now allowed to touch; _allowed_ to love.

As gently as possible, he reached and brushed a knuckle over Pietro's freckled cheek, then leaned in to kiss his forehead, his nose. When Pietro closed his eyes, Lance kissed each blue-veined eyelid. When Pietro pulled him closer, he kissed him properly, holding his face and stroking thumbs over high, proud cheekbones.

He pulled back with a final kiss to that beloved pointy chin, and melted at Pietro's smile.

"I'm beat," he confessed, rubbing at his own eyes. "Tro, I'm so fuckin' tired."

"So turn the light off, rockstar."

Lance did, standing and stretching, pulling his flattened garbage bag off the bed and dumping it on the floor. He stripped as he walked, shucking off his vest and gloves and shirt and shoes and jeans, letting them fall wherever.

When he reached the door and turned back, he saw that Pietro had done the same, a neatly folded pile of clothing on the windowsill along with Lance's lighter and unlit cigarette. He pulled the window all the way open to let in the crisp fall chill, then donned Lance's headphones and closed his eyes.

It was a physical pain, looking at Pietro like this. Big and filled out, but still young; still soft. There was a silver trail of hair leading up from the waist of his briefs, and the sight made Lance's mouth go dry. If he wasn't so tired...

He switched the light off and stumbled his way back across the unfamiliar landscape. It was so strange, existing in a room without the laughs and farts and snores of at least a dozen other boys. The twin-sized bed was an island oasis compared to his old, tiny bunk.

Pietro's hand found his wrist, drawing him down. He was already goose-pimpled from the breeze stirring the curtains, so Lance did his best to curl around him, their faces so close that Lance could hear the music from his headphones.

Pietro sighed contentedly. "You still owe me a secret, Alvers."

Lance grinned. "I like it when you're behind me," he confessed, and his words had the desired effect: Pietro drew back and allowed Lance to roll over before again clinging close, chest to spine, Lance’s disfiguring scars now hidden from the world. He smiled when Pietro kissed the back of his neck.

"Little-spoon Lancelot," Pietro teased, brushing tickle-light fingers over his ribs, and Lance laughed.

"Feels safe."

Pietro's fingers stilled. "Yeah?" He sounded a touch cautious now.

"’Course," Lance agreed easily, interrupted by a huge yawn. "Always safe with you."

They fell quiet for so long that Lance almost drifted off until Pietro shifted, nuzzling his cheek on Lance's shoulder. "Yeah, Alvers. I'll keep you safe; whatever it takes."

Lance reached to squeeze Pietro's hand, still resting on his waist. "I know. You kept your old promise, too.”

Pietro frowned, perhaps thinking back to what promise that might be. Lance’s heart sank, hoping Pietro wouldn’t think him sappy for cherishing such old memories.

“You said you’d take me to New York someday…?”

Lance saw the moment the realization clicked in Pietro’s eyes; when he recalled the words of two boys with too much cash in their pockets and pizza grease on their hands, rebellious and triumphant after a forbidden day in a big city. He laughed aloud in wonder, and Lance was relieved at the kindness of fate.

“Just you wait, Lancelot. This is New York _state_. One day I’ll take you to NYC and you’ll _really_ think that’s something.”

Lance believed him; every word. He squeezed Pietro’s hand again, and nestled in for the night. When he slept, he dreamed of a galaxy-eyed doe, forever just beyond his reach.


	4. Locked in Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Brief mention of past childhood sexual abuse on a secondary character. It is not graphic or described in any detail.

**Part Three, Chapter 4: Locked in Love**

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_December 2001_

Pietro would have preferred to walk to the bridge, but after training, mid-terms, and then more training, he knew Lance would be too tired to keep pace.　

"Where are you two going tonight?" Kitty asked when he met her in the hallway between the boys and girls locker rooms. She had a nasty bruise blooming on her cheek from a tumbling fall in the Danger Room not an hour before.

Pietro, still nursing some rapidly-healing sores of his own, gave a shrug. "Just... Around. Get some food, probably. You got a date tonight?"

She laughed uncomfortably, both at his evasiveness and the change in topic. Her hair and uniform were sweat-drenched, and she carried her pajamas over one arm, clearly intending a shower and a night in. "The only one I'm dating right now is Virginia Woolf. I want to get my holiday homework done tonight so I can enjoy the next two weeks off."

Pietro had finished his and Lance's school assignments before they'd left campus. It was easier that way. Their time was not their own anymore; every minute was scheduled for them in color-coded boxes taped to their bedroom doors every Sunday night. Who gave a fuck if Lance knew trig or chemistry? His future had been decided for him just as surely as his schedule, and it had nothing to do with academics.

Dozens of X-kids milled this way and that around the two friends, gabbing animatedly about winter plans; visits home; how much their final exams at Bayville High (or, in some cases, _Junior_ High) had sucked.

"Are you going home for the holidays?"

They'd not been allowed time off for Hanukkah-- in the eyes of most American public schools, only Christian-based holidays warranted a vacation-- but Pietro thought Kitty probably still wanted to spend the break with her family.

His suspicions were confirmed when Kitty nodded. "Scott is flying me and a bunch of other kids in Xavier's jet tomorrow." Of course there were plenty of non-American X-kids, but Scott, seventeen, was not yet licensed to fly out of country borders. Jury was still out on whether one of the adults would bother to pick up the slack. "You can come with me, if you want."

Based on the way she avoided his eyes, she knew he would decline. For a moment, he almost felt guilty. Then in a blinding cloud of sulphurous, blue-black smoke, Kurt teleported between them and wound his arms around Kitty, giving her a squeeze.

"Kitty! You were so... what's the word," he struggled, flipping through his mental lexicon of English slang. "So _badass_ today! The way you disabled that bomb, just like _that!"_ With his two-fingered hands he pantomimed how Kitty had phased through the explosive, rescuing her party by severing the correct wires just in the nick of time.

The German mutant had taken a real shine to the girl; absolute puppy love at its most nauseating. Lance grumbled and scowled about it every now and then, but mostly he let it be. Whether Kitty knew that Kurt's affections were more than friendly was anyone's guess.

She returned his embrace with enthusiasm, nuzzling her nose into his blue-furred cheek. “You were great, too!” she enthused. “The way you rescued Sam-- it was, like, totally cool, Kurt!”

The two of them were cute as puppies in a basket. It made Pietro want to barf, but also made him smile. He'd never seen Kitty so happy before, even if she _was_ being exploited without her knowledge for someone else's agenda. Again.

_She was only ever unhappy because of you, anyway. She's able to be happy now because you're finally leaving her alone._

Pietro brushed the thought aside. He'd done what he thought he'd had to do. The circumstances had changed, so now he was doing something else. There was no point in regretting anything.

"Kitty!" Kurt urged, tugging excitedly at her hand. "Come, come to my room! Sam's parents bought him a _computer!_ He says we can play a game on it..."

Kitty glanced at Pietro only once as she was hauled off. He gave her a little smile. "Get some ice on that bruise, Kätzchen," he advised in parting. "You look like somebody's been smacking you around."

They'd _all_ been smacking each other around. They'd been beating the hell out of one another for two solid months. Whenever one of the professors reminded them to “be discreet about their extracurricular activities” when talking with friends and family, Pietro rolled his eyes all the harder.

 _Peaceful integration?_ Yeah right. Why couldn't anyone else see what Charles was doing to them? It would certainly help to force-- _"coax!"_  -- the public into seeing things his-- _"their!"_ \-- way when he paved the road with obedient, superpowered sentinels.

Not that Pietro could complain. It was better for Lance to be an oblivious child soldier with resources, financial backing, and support than an out-of-control mutant menace all on his own. Hell; last week he'd gone to the dentist for the first time in his life. Plans had been made to remove his impacted wisdom teeth. It was the best life Pietro could afford to buy him.

And speak of the devil, Lance stumbled out of the locker room wearing a pair of sweats, carrying his dirty uniform. He had hair wet from the showers and was shaking water from one ear.

Without preamble he walked straight into Pietro and folded over him, nearly knocking him to the ground. Passing students glanced their way as Pietro struggled to hold Lance and himself upright, patting his back.

"Tired," Lance complained.

"I know, I know. We'll get you some coffee."

There was another groan, prolonged and indulgently self aware. "Do we have to go out? Can't we just play Scrabble and watch _Murder She Wrote_?"

"Seeing as we're not in a nursing home yet, no, Alvers. Give it half a century."

Pietro felt Lance smile against his shoulder. A passing Scott Summers shot them both a poisonous glare-- he never _had_ forgiven them for the bedroom eviction, nor could he understand why his foster father Charles wouldn't take his side in the argument. Pietro gave him a cheerful wave and shook Lance off.

"C'mon. We're burning daylight."

"You sound like Logan."

Pietro laughed. Lance had a point. Wolverine was a ruthless coach and professor. ' _You're burning daylight_ ' was a favorite cliche of his, right after ' _move it or lose it_!'

"Hey, I'm not as bad as him. Yet. At least I don't wear a whistle. Or threaten to shish-kebab anyone with my gross arm-claws."

Lance's little snicker was the best sound in the world. He stood and slung an arm around Pietro's shoulders as they made their way downstairs to the dorms. They changed into casual clothes and Pietro made Lance sit at his desk as he combed and braided that long brown hair.

"Did you see the chore chart? They've got me on laundry duty _again,"_ Lance groused. "Can you believe it?! That's the third week..."

"At least you don't have to help make breakfast. They probably knew you’d never get up that early.” Pietro secured the braid with an elastic, impulsively leaning in to kiss the top of Lance’s head.

With a grin, Lance swivelled in his seat and reached for Pietro, pulling him down into a proper kiss. The world went quiet for a few minutes. Finally extricating himself, Pietro tugged Lance by the hand to the door. Lance followed, easy and content despite his physical exhaustion.

The mansion's garage was full of vehicles: a few modern black BMWs, all equipped to carry a wheelchair; Logan's beloved motorcycle and truck; Hank's station wagon; Ororo's cadillac. Lance's Jeep was parked next to Scott's cherry-red convertible, which Lance flipped the bird while backing out.

"Think Daddy Warbucks will buy him a new one for graduation?"

"Obviously. Can't let future President Summers be seen in anything but the best."

This wasn't fair for several reasons, and Pietro knew it. Among other things, Scott had purchased the car with his own money. And even if he hadn't, to criticize Summers for using his relationship with Charles for financial gain would have been the height of hypocrisy. Pietro now had a credit card and cell phone in Xavier's name. But if Lance needed to hate someone for petty assumptions, that was his business.

They drove to their preferred gas station first. When they passed Bayville High, Lance thrust his arm out the window and gave it the same vigorous gesture he'd given Scott's convertible.

 _"You're_ full of piss today," Pietro remarked dryly.

"Fuck school!"

"Ah, yes. Truly a philosopher and a poet, Alvers. Where _do_ you get your inspiration? Bathroom wall graffiti?"

"Fuck you, too!"

"Well, if you're offering..."

They kept up the bicker-bantering as they parked at a pump and strolled into the station, Pietro loading up on snacks (and one large coffee: no cream, two sugars). Lance made a beeline for the counter.

"Any mail for me, Shelley?"

The stocky Latina cashier glanced up from the paperback she was devouring. "Hey, you. No mail. Sorry."

Lance pouted. He claimed not to trust mail delivery to Xavier's, assuming any carriers would have as difficult a time finding the place as he always did. Instead, he sent and received mail from the station. The postcards from Deerfield County Jail had been few and far between, but Lance treasured them like pearls.

"Well, _I've_ got another letter." From his vest, Lance withdrew an envelope, addressed to Dex in his messy handwriting. If he spent half as much time on his schoolwork as he did writing letters every week...

"You got it, cutie." Shelley took the letter and tucked it into her book, to drop in the mailbox after her shift ended.

Carting his armload of junk to the counter, Pietro requested, "Twenty bucks on pump seven."

"And two packs of Camels?"

Pietro wondered if Lance knew that he was being cute when he flashed his little smile, blinking those big brown eyes. And people complained that _Pietro_ used his looks to manipulate others!

Lance lost his easy swagger when Pietro whipped out the credit card to pay. He always got kind of funny about that... Money was just a touchy subject.

He was quiet as they stepped back out into the brisk, late afternoon, drawing jackets and squinting against the sun bouncing off snow piles. He leaned against Pietro’s side again as he pumped gas, sipping his coffee. When Pietro pressed his cold nose into Lance’s warm neck, Lance smiled and stroked his hair.

He'd lost his smile, however, when they returned to the vehicle, shivering. "P? I _need_ to ask you something."

"Is it a secret?" In their currency of secrets, Pietro currently owed Lance two. He preferred to pay his debts off as quickly as possible.

"Isn't everything a secret with us?" He drummed gloved fingers-- finally! Real gloves! The dead of winter had at last coaxed Lance into temporarily relinquishing the fingerless ones-- on the steering wheel, and Pietro busied himself with arranging the bags of chips as he gathered his thoughts.

"Your meetings with Charles--"

"Off limits," Pietro interrupted firmly, shutting him down fast. They so very rarely claimed anything verboten nowadays, but _this_... "I mean it, Alvers."

"What if I give you a really big secret in exchange? A building block of Lancelot."

Hmm... Tempting _._ "Let me hear the exact question and I'll see how much I can answer. But you're not allowed to pick and pry after that."

"He gives you money. A lot of money."

"Was that the question?"

"No. When he calls you to the library..." Lance's brow went pinched, his eyes downcast as he struggled for words. He looked as though he expected to be punished for even asking. "You said he was friends with your dad. And I just wonder..."

"Was Charles sleeping with Father?" Pietro supplied. Both relief and embarrassment had Lance clenching his jaw, staring fixedly at his hands. "Yes, he was."

The pinched look on Lance's face intensified. He licked his lip. Fidgeted uncomfortably. "Is he making you do that, too?"

"No," Pietro replied honestly. "And I don't think he'd ever go there. I’m Father’s lame little shadow. Nowhere near as good as the original. But in full disclosure? If he asked, I would."

It'd certainly be easier to do _that_ than trail people all over the country-- mutant and human alike-- gathering intel, reporting back with his findings. It was a real bitch and a half, sometimes.

Lance's hands shook, and he clenched them between his knees to still them. He took a deep, shuddery breath, his braid falling over one shoulder. "Don't, P. Even if he kicks us out; don’t."

Pietro huffed a long-suffering sigh. "Not everybody makes sex out to be this great big fuckin’ deal, like you do. I wouldn't give a shit."

"But you should!" The Jeep quaked on its axles. Lance pressed his eyes tight, and it stopped quickly enough. His control had improved, though his outbursts were still frequent. "When I was really little... There was this social worker who visited us a lot. And she--"

Oh, _no_. Very abruptly Pietro lost his grin, becoming still and sharp as any predator. "Did she hurt you?" He would kill her. Of this, he was coldly, clinically certain. The sun would rise, the rain would fall, and Pietro would kill the woman who dared hurt his Lancelot.

But Lance shook his head no. "Not me. Dex. Look, it was... Everyone else said he was real lucky, cuz she was ‘hot,’ or whatever. They acted like it was all a big joke, but I _saw_ how bad it fucked him up. Please don't let Xavier hurt you like that."

It must have taken a lot of courage for Lance to speak up. He so seldom gave out other people's secrets. But he had called this a 'building block of Lancelot,' so it had clearly affected him deeply.

"Fine," Pietro agreed, light and easy. "So Sir Bald-and-Creepy doesn't get to ride the Tro-Train, _which_ , might I add, he has shown absolutely no interest whatsoever in doing anyway. Too bad; so sad for him. Any other demands, O Bossy One?"

He waited for Lance to laugh, but it didn’t happen. Of all things he looked _thankful_ , and that was far too much to handle.

"I love you," Lance said. One day, those words would stop feeling like a dagger to Pietro’s chest.

"I'm... yeah. I know. You and I are--"

"I know."

The silence stretched another minute, and then Pietro could take it no longer. He darted in, snatching the keys out of Lance's hand and shoving them into the ignition himself, cranking up the Jeep's heater before he was forced to skin and wear his boyfriend for warmth.

" _If_ we're quite done with this delightful chat on gender inequality in pedophilic stigma, I really did have something to show you before we return to Boot Camp Part Two: Mutant Boogaloo.”

Now Lance was the one to roll his eyes. "Alright, alright. Where is this special bridge of yours, anyway?"

It was funny, how Pietro's memory held onto some things like a vice. He remembered the way here. Remembered Wanda's grubby hand in his; remembered racing along these blocks for the simple, pure _joy_ of running, back when he’d travelled at the speed of any other child.

"Park here," Pietro advised, when they reached a particularly shabby-looking neighborhood. "Just wherever. We're gonna have to walk a little."

Lance did, and in a moment they were hand-in-hand, passing little houses with broken windows and torn screens on their doors. In some yards there were snowmen or tricycles or other evidence of child life. Despite the poverty, there was clear love here; apparent in the Christmas lights; the music blasting from upstairs windows; the sounds of laughter and talking and singing.

"What if we lived here?" Lance asked, swinging their hands between them. "I could get a job fixing cars, and I’d bring you flowers every day."

"And I'd be barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen, I assume?"

"Uh… Unless you’ve got a secret uterus stashed in there somewhere, probably not. But maybe we could take in some foster kids?"

Pietro glanced sharply at Lance, looking to see if he was making some horrifically twisted joke. To his great surprise, Lance looked taken in by the idea, eyes bright in thought.

"What the _fuck_ do we know about parenting, Lancelot?!" Pietro scoffed. "My dad had my twin walled into a nuthouse and then dumped my ass in the middle of fuckall nowhere. And your mom…!" Well. No need to get into that. "We'd fuck some poor kid up so _bad._ We'd make a monster!" _A monster just as bad as us, if not_ so _much worse._

"We wouldn't." Lance's hand squeezed his tightly, and Pietro realized he’d been shouting. "Because we know better. There's no way we'd hurt someone the way we've been hurt. We could get it right."

Pietro's heart slammed his chest with such gunfire-intensity that it was actually painful. He had to stop in his tracks, dizzy and sick. And when Lance looked and saw his panicked expression, the confident gleam fell right out of his eyes.

"We don't have to, P," Lance promised softly. "It was... It was just a thought. I didn’t mean it…”

A shiver wracked Pietro from head to toe, and he was pulled into Lance's arms; held to his chest. "Sorry, baby," Lance whispered, chagrined. "So, so sorry. I didn't know. No kids; promise."

"No kids," Pietro echoed faintly, and Lance pressed a kiss to his hair.

He was a speedster. He could recover from all things, quick as lightning. Shaking his burst of terror off like so much water, he forced a smile and squirmed out of Lance's hold, marching forward to mask any lingering embarrassment about his freakout. Long used to Pietro's rapid turns in mood, Lance only followed along.

"I swear it's around here somewhere..."

There was an elementary school at the end of the block, and in the heavily-graffitied playground there were a dozen or so children in puffy jackets racing around an old basketball court, protected by a chain-link fence. Though their breath puffed visibly like dragon's smoke, their shrieks and giggles and good-natured swearing was full of warmth and life.

Winding his fingers in the fence, Pietro barked a commanding, "Hey!"

Faces turned their way. There was a girl among this boy's club, and it was not lost on Pietro the way at least two of the others tilted so their bodies blocked his view of her. Pietro was a stranger old enough to, in their eyes, qualify as a "grown-up," or at least a "big kid". They followed a lifetime of parental orders to protect their little sister, no doubt.

"Yeah?" The oldest boy, bigger than the rest, pinned their ball under one arm and approached, regarding Pietro warily through the fence.

"Can someone tell me where Lover’s Bridge is?"

This got him several confused faces, but a voice in the back piped, "You mean Kissing Pond, right behind the ol' Jew-church?"

"It's called a synagogue," Pietro snapped. "And yes. That."

He and Wanda just called it Lover’s Bridge, but it made sense that it would have a different colloquial name.

The oldest boy nodded to Lance, eyebrows arching high enough to raise his beanie. "You're taking _him_ to Kissing Pond?"

Pietro smiled toothily, a bearing of sharp white teeth. "Looks that way. That a problem?"

"Just _tell_ him, Robbie," the half-hidden girl huffed. "Mom said it takes all sorts to make the world go 'round."

Begrudgingly accepting this as gospel, Robbie gave Pietro the needed instructions, then returned to his game.

The two teenage mutants had almost made it to the end of the street when the girl cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted after them. "Hey, mister! You gonna _kiss_ him?!"

Lance peeked at Pietro, grinning mischievously. Then he seized his boyfriend, a hand on his back and another around his waist, and dipped him low, kissing him theatrically on the mouth with a loud “Mwah!” Mingled among the giggles and " _ew_!"s were more than a few cheers, and some scattered clapping.

Lance pulled Pietro back to his feet and bowed deeply, looking quite pleased with himself. The giggling intensified before the basketball game resumed in brutal earnest.

Pietro shook his head, unable to hold back a smirk as they commenced their journey. "You're somethin’ else."

"Well, I didn't know you were taking me to a _kissing_ pond. It's a big day!"

As directed, they followed the train tracks until they reached an old, two-story gray building, arched like a barn but with black trim and white shutters, a glowing Magen David bright in the front, center window. There were several cars parked all around, and the sight triggered Pietro's memory.

"That's the synagogue." And, after a moment, "Oh, right! It's Friday. Uh, Shabbat."

"What's that?" Lance gripped Pietro's shoulder for balance as he stepped over a low wall separating the parking lot from a rather steep hill.

"The sabbath. It's the sunset service." He hadn't attended since early childhood, but could never forget the taste of raisin-studded Challah bread made shiny with egg, or the warm candlelight flickering on Wanda's face as she struggled to remember the blessing.

"Can we go?"

Well, wasn't Lance just full of surprises today. "You want to?"

"Kinda, yeah." Lance, uncoordinated, was having a bitch of a time with the grassy, ice-frosted hill. The third time he stumbled, Pietro caught him.

"Try not to break your neck, rockstar. Yeah, we can, I think. It's a smaller branch, though; probably everyone knows everybody else. We’ll get some funny looks."

"But it's not against the rules? Promise?"

Pietro smiled, enjoying this more than he'd expected. "No, Alvers. Just be good, okay? No rough stuff."

"Well, duh. I don't want to go to hell."

"Jews don't believe in hell. Not the kind you're thinking of, anyway, with the fire and the pitchforks."

"What?! So where do you send all the bad people?"

He almost pitched face-first into the trickling stream, or 'pond' as the children had called it, right at the base of the hill. Pietro had to dig his heels in hard not to be dragged in after him.

Regaining their balance, they walked along the round stones that bordered the stream, arms linked. Lance was looking all around, taking in the thin shrubbery and considerable litter problem. The place was kind of a dump; the murky green water only about two feet deep and half frozen, besides.

 _"This_ is the kissing pond? It looks more like where you'd dump a body if you didn't want it to be found for a while."

"Just trust me."

The bridge wasn't too hard to find. The ground dipped suddenly, and safe navigation would have been nigh impossible were it not for several planks of half-rotted wood nailed together by industrial teens some twenty or more years prior. They'd really gone the extra mile by affixing plastic baby gates on either side, creating a safety barrier over the water and to a little outstretch of land just beyond.

Dangling like ornaments from almost every hole in the gates were locks; metal and plastic, tarnished and new, of every color of the rainbow. They glinted dully in the lowering sun, reflecting circles of light on the wood and water.

It was these locks that had so entranced a young Wanda. She’d sat for ages with her legs dangling, toes skimming the water, touching them all one at a time. She'd conjured smoke from her fingertips, using her powers to coax them open and closed, arranging and rearranging the locks into different colorful patterns until Father finally tracked them down, annoyed at having to search so far.

"What are they for?" Pietro had asked, reaching for the man's hand, pleased when he was permitted to take it.

Usually Magneto ignored his son's questions, but perhaps he'd been in a good mood after a day of playing chess with Charles. He'd examined the locks, conjuring one to him and disassembling it in midair, cogs separating into their base parts.

"It's a promise between lovers," he'd explained. "That they'll remain united. Locked in love, forever."

Then he'd turned away, and the disassembled lock fell into the water and sank like a dead thing.

From his pocket, Pietro now drew a small black gym lock and passed it over to Lance. It was brand new; scratch-free and shiny with fresh paint. "Combination is 3-37-10," Pietro said, and Lance dutifully spun the little clicking dial with clumsy gloved fingers until it sprang open.

"You want me to--" Lance gestured towards the plastic gate where all the other locks hung, and Pietro nodded, so he stepped onto the boards. Though they complained loudly beneath his soles, there was no threat of collapse. He walked along until he found an empty set of holes in the fencing, then crouched to thread the metal hook through.

"Lancelot?" Pietro said, and the other boy glanced up at him. Pietro hid his shaking hands behind his back. Swallowed to clear his suddenly dry mouth. "I love you."

Lance stilled, and Pietro took a mental snapshot of the moment: the hills, the bridge, Lance's gloved fingers so carefully cradling the lock. The way his eyes went soft, both ancient and childlike all at once.

"I do," Pietro affirmed. "For real. You're it for me."

What a ridiculous thing for a teenager to claim. He imagined his father sneering; heard Charles's dismissive voice echoing his thoughts: _You don't know what 'love' is._

Fuck that. Fuck them. He may have been young, and stupid, and a monster, but he knew his truths from his lies. "And I promise, no matter what happens, I'm always going to. Okay?"

Lance carefully closed the lock with a barely audible click and released it to hang with all the others; a physical promise in a hidden place only children ever ventured, made holy by their unwavering belief. Then he straightened and approached, stepping off the bridge and close, closer.

He drew Pietro in, holding his face in his large hands, then touching their foreheads. He wrapped his arms, thick and heavy, around his boyfriend's shoulders and exhaled a shuddery breath.

"Yes," he agreed, and there was no note of doubt in his voice to be found.

They remained that way for a long moment, listening to the burble of the stream, the rustle of wind through shrubbery, lost in their own world before Pietro at last pulled back.

"You wanted to go to Shabbat, right? We'd better get back up there. It's not called the sunset service for nothing."

Lance nodded and took his hand. Together they struggled up the hill and back into reality.


	5. Return to Sender

**Part Three, Chapter 5: Return to Sender**

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_June 2002_

Aware that he was being filmed, Lance flexed his back muscles and tried hard not to smirk. This exam would be a piece of cake, even if he _did_ find his elevator platform raised to a snowy landscape that had him shivering in his boots.

"Mr. Alvers!" snapped Ororo, her aristocratic voice piped directly into Lance's right ear through a small, state-of-the-art comm. His high-tech uniform wicked the sweat right off his body, and his helmet protected his brain from any potential crumbling his quaking might cause. "If you're _quite_ finished showing off, your hostage is in imminent peril."

Lance snapped a cheeky salute and heard some snickering in the background, behind the one-sided glass that looked, to him, like nothing but a steep mountain pass. The X-kids watching his exam were enjoying his flippant attitude.

The Danger Room was a masterpiece of unparalleled tech. Money talked. Old money screamed. Charles Xavier had it all by the truckload. Charles Xavier always got what he wanted, and what Charles _wanted_ was a squadron of highly trained teenage mutants.

In Lance's ear, Ororo prompted: "What's the first step?"

"Assess my surroundings," Lance replied. His 'surroundings' were high, computer-generated mountaintops. Judging by the way his head was feeling a little swimmy, the freezing air being pumped into the Danger Room contained very little oxygen. He had to move fast if he didn't want to faint. That was always embarrassing to do with an audience.

Shouldering his meager pack-- really just a bag of weights meant to simulate supplies-- Lance set off alone across the seemingly-endless room at a brisk pace. It took him a few slides and near-falls over uneven, icy, rocky ground for it to become apparent that he had to watch his step.

"So who's my hostage played by today?" Lance wondered. "Sam again?"

"You don't know that yet," Ororo replied crisply. "And keep your mouth closed, please. You're dehydrated, remember? And you don’t know if your hostage’s kidnapper is still out there..."

Oh, right. He dimly recalled skimming that in his mission statement. He'd apparently been trapped in the arctic tundra for two days without food or drink. Keeping his mouth closed would retain moisture.

This became harder to do as he was forced to climb a ten-foot vertical wall, fumbling in the ice for hand and footholds. His oxygen-starved brain wanted him to pant like a dog. It went against every instinct he had not to give in. They were really kicking his ass this time around, weren't they? Hell; for all he knew, he wasn't even walking in the same direction as his hostage…

As soon as he had that thought, he found something snagged in the rocks that rubbed his gloved hands raw: a scrap of sky blue fabric. Hadn't the report said that his hostage was last seen wearing a blue parka? If he were a wolf-shifter like Rahne, he’d have sniffed it to determine the identity of said hostage. Then again, if he were Rahne, he’d also have a toasty fur coat to wear.

Lance hauled himself inelegantly over the cliff wall; right leg first and then the rest of his body rolling to follow. When he looked up, the white winter "sun"-- really just a stage light set to max-- blinded him severely.

"Aw, fuck!" he hissed between his teeth, hands rising to ward it off. Tears streamed down his frosty cheeks and wet the scarf he'd pulled over his nose. "Guys, come on; what the _fuck_?"

"Language," his mentor chided. "What does the sun tell you?"

"That functioning eyeballs are for pussies?"

"Mr. _Alvers_."

He racked his brains, stuffing his hands into his armpits to conserve his core temperature. One would expect these fancy suits to be thermal, right? Why pay so much money for all the bells and whistles and still leave out such a vital component?

 _Unless they_ wanted _to make this harder. Fucking sadists._

Freezing wind blew oppressively into his face, frosting his eyelashes before melting when he blinked. He'd stopped shivering already, which was a bad sign. Hypothermia was imminent. How was his hostage even still alive in such conditions?

"Alvers. The sun."

"Fuck the sun! I'm so _tired_."

"It's the oxygen deprivation. And if you give up now, I'm flunking you. Again."

 _So flunk me, then_. The bitter retort nested on the tip of his tongue. What, so he wouldn't get to be one of the big boys yet? Wouldn't get to go on real missions with Summers and Jean? Big fucking whoop! He'd never really wanted this, anyway!

_What does the fucking sun mean…?_

It came to him, then; slow, like an aborted trickle of water. The sun rose in the east and set in the west. According to the watch he wore, it was two in the afternoon in whatever godforsaken place this was supposed to represent. If the sun was this low at two in the afternoon, then his hostage had to be close. He or she would only have had a few brief hours of sun to work by, and if they were as injured as the reports claimed...

_How close? Where does an injured person hide?_

He took a step and yelped when he sank into a snowbank. Man; this stuff was real now? Did they import it just for his exam?

As he tried to extract his leg, he saw something dark streaking past the corners of his vision. He tensed immediately, his training taking over, reminding him that movement made a target. Was he under attack?

It blurred past a second time, lost in the shadows of “trees” projected on the panelled walls, too fast to track in such crippling sunlight. _Pietro_?

No; Pietro was behind the wall with all the other X-kids, and his silver hair would have been a dead giveaway anyway. This was someone slower; heavier...

The blow to the back of his head caught him off guard. He pitched face-first in the snow and lay completely still, stunned without actually being hurt. After a heartbeat, he felt something snuffle the back of his neck, and then he understood who his hostage’s “kidnapper” must be. _Logan._

There was no fighting the Wolverine. Lance simply could not win. Never mind that Logan had clearly already won; he wasn’t pulling fangs or claws or staking any sort of victory, so Lance took the freebie. The only place left to go was down. With that thought, he threw his bag of “supplies” aside, took a deep breath, and dove.

He burrowed into the snow like he was swimming in dense water, glad to at least find it powdery and accommodating. _Hold your breath and get down deep, but don't ever forget which direction is up..._

It was actually warmer under the weight of snow. Made sense. Body heat. _His_ body heat. Trapped. Blankets worked this way, too. And clothes. And igloos. Snow was like a blanket. Blanket of snow. Sled dogs sometimes dug pits in the snow to warm up in, right? So soft, too...

He touched something in the darkness, and it jolted his fritzing brain back into the moment. What was--

His hand wrapped around a wrist; slender and hard under both of their gloves.

 _There she is,_ he thought, and felt a hysterical giggle bubble up in his chest. _I'm suffocating and she's dead. My hostage is dead and I killed her._

How he’d gendered the hostage, he couldn't say; it was just the information his unreliable brain supplied. “Female,” and “dead,” both adjectives coming to him with pure conviction. Still he pulled her close, following the length of her arm until he touched a shoulder, a neck, a face, which he tucked into his shoulder.

 _We don't have to die alone,_ Lance told her in his mind. _We can die like Quasimodo and Esmeralda. They'll find our skeletons all tangled up someday and make up a crazy story about how we were in love..._

Wasn't Esmeralda Romani? It probably pissed Tro off big-time when they called her the G-word. He'd have to ask about that later. See if he even liked that old hunchback book. Tro had an opinion about everything, which was useful, because Lance so rarely had his own. Tro would tell him what to think.

The girl against his chest moved. Lance _felt_ it. She stirred feebly like a chick inside an egg, and it spurred him into immediate action. He was no longer a boy or a mutant or a person at all, but a _hero._ He gathered his wits about himself and quaked the world apart, blasting through snow and mountain; feeling the pressure coalesce in his head until pain sparked like cobalt fire behind his eyelids.

Like sand from a cracked hourglass, the snow slipped away and the two felt fresh air hit their faces. Lance gasped for breath and hauled the girl’s arm over his neck, kicking frantically for a solid surface to push against. Depositing the girl's body on a rock, Lance curled close around her and forced his dying limbs to obey him, peeling the mask off her face.

 _Oh! Rogue_... Faint blue color kissed her lips and eyelids, matching the torn parka she wore. She looked so different without all her goth makeup. She was in better shape than him; that was for sure. Still breathing and everything. His chest hurt too much to breathe. Who knew dying was so prolonged and painful?!

"Is it over, Ororo?" he tried to ask, though his tongue was a solid brick in his mouth and he suspected the comm had broken anyway. "Can we be done?"

If they were done, the bells would clang and the computer-generated portions of the Danger Room would fade back to plain mirrors. The air quality would change into something more breathable, and they'd be blasted with blessed, lovely heat.

_You haven't rescued her yet, dumbass. Finding her was just the half of it._

What was left, then?

Hot breath hit the back of Lance's neck again, puffing, waiting; a quiet predator's threat. Logan loomed behind him like a spectre of death, casting a long shadow over the two huddled forms.

 _I can't move_ , Lance realized, and was surprised at how sad this made him feel. _I failed after all..._

Underneath him, Rogue stirred, her storm-gray eyes sliding open to focus on his face. She looked up at her rescuer, waiting expectantly, and Lance felt his heart break a little. He'd forgotten at some point that this was just training. _I didn't mean to let you die,_ he thought, and mournfully rested his head on her chest. _I did my best!_

The breathing on his neck lingered. Why wouldn't Logan pounce and claim his victory already? He'd won! What was he waiting for?!

As though he were standing right there beside him, Lance heard Pietro's voice, plain as day: "Sometimes, Lancelot, you gotta let other people do the rescuing."

Well, who else was there?! There was only Rogue, and _her_ powers...

… Were _his_ powers.

Clever bastards.

Lance gave a little shake of his head; the only movement he was still capable of. His body had locked up precious seconds before. Dislodging his scarf, Lance tilted his face and pressed his bare cheek against Rogue's toxic skin.

Upon contact, he felt her leach his power and energy from his body, sucked like water down a drain. The world went black as Rogue sat up fast, her eyes glowing pure, molten gold...

The mountain quaked to pieces. Lance sank gratefully into blackness, a triumphant smile on his face.

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He woke to delightfully hot steam blanketing him from head to toe, his head resting on something soft.

"Is this heaven?" he asked groggily, and heard Pietro snort.

"Close. The sauna."

"Hm." Lance wriggled his face in Pietro's lap, completely at ease. "'Quasimodo' means 'almost human,' right?"

"I'm surprised you know that. The kinder translation is thought to be 'like a newborn.'"

"I watch a lot of late-night TV. I guess we're both Quasimodos, huh? Almost human?"

The fingers in his hair scratched deliciously against his scalp, scraping behind his ear, and he sighed in pure bliss.

"There's no 'almost' about you, Alvers. You broke the fucking Danger Room. I guess technically Rogue did, but you gave her _your_ powers, so..."

 _This_ got Lance’s attention. Eyes flying wide, he looked up into Pietro's calm blue eyes. "You're kidding."

"I'm really not. Repair is gonna take a _while_. You dropped like thirty boulders on Logan's face."

Lance felt a pang of guilt at that. He honestly liked the grouchy professor, when he wasn't stalking him on snowy, oxygenless mountaintops. "He's all better now, though, right? Rogue, too?"

"Obviously. He's the Wolverine. He's criticizing the hell out of your exam, but I think he's proud of you."

Lance smiled, reaching for Pietro's spare hand. "I saw you on the mountain," he recalled. "Pretty sure I was blitzed outta my mind, but I heard your voice. You saved me."

He kissed Pietro's knuckles in thanks, then unfolded them and kissed his palm, too. The sleeve of Pietro’s white bathrobe tickled Lance's cheek. Pietro’s hair had fluffed out in the humidity, glowing dove-white in all the steam. He looked soft and golden-dewed and very touchable.

"Yeah?" Pietro brought his thumb to Lance's lips, pressing lightly. "What'd I say? Nothing too bad for branding, I hope?"

Lance snorted. He registered dimly that he too was wearing only a bathrobe, and hoped Pietro had been the one to remove his uniform. Xavier's staff had proved many times over that they weren't too fussed with boundaries. “You said something about my not always having to be the hero. That’s how I knew I was supposed to let Rogue use my powers. I wouldn’t have figured it out otherwise.”

He parted his lips and drew Pietro's thumb into his mouth, holding it lightly between his teeth and tracing the pad with the tip of his tongue.

"You and your oral fixation," Pietro huffed, rolling his eyes, and then fed Lance his index finger, too. "Yeah, taking credit for other people's work _is_ kinda my thing, but since it's you, I gotta say it: I didn't do shit. That was all you, rockstar. I sure as fuck wouldn’t have let her do that to me."　

He worked a third finger into Lance's mouth, pressing flat to his tongue. It was impossible to talk like this, but Lance tried anyway. "Rrr _ooo_ rou oh ee?"

Pietro's smile turned a little wicked as he watched his boyfriend drool down his chin. "Me? Proud of _you?_ Hmmm..." he pretended to think the question over. Lance tried not to squirm. "I _guess_ so..."

He failed to stifle a snicker as Lance glanced around at their surroundings-- alone in a cedar box; all tiled floors and dense white steam-- and slipped a leg off the wooden bench, pointedly spreading his knees.

“You’re so easy,” Pietro mocked sweetly, and slid his fingers out of Lance’s mouth before forcing them back in again. Lance sucked them noisily, eager to please, the muscles in his stomach rolling a little as Pietro palmed them with his free hand. “Good boy.”

The door to the sauna opened in a blast of unforgivingly cold air, and there stood Summers, stiff and proper as a mint-condition tin soldier. "It's about time for-- Oh, for crying out loud! Can you two give it a rest for five minutes?!"

Face heating, Lance struggled into a seated position, subtly adjusting himself as he scowled at Scott's shiny shoes. "It's not _my_ fault that you never learned how to knock!"

"I shouldn’t _have_ to knock before entering a public-- You know what? Never mind. You’re wanted in the library." To Pietro, Scott said coldly, "You're meant to come, too."

"Well, I was _about_ to, but you always pick the worst time to interrupt."

It was hard to tell under those opaque glasses he always wore, but Lance suspected his expression must be mutinous. 'If looks could kill' took on a whole new meaning when in reference to Cyclops. Without a word he turned and left them to dress.

"You feeling okay?" Pietro asked when Lance stood and immediately braced an arm on the slick wall, dizzied. Pietro zipped around in a silver blur and turned off all the sauna heaters. "You really gave the healing factor of your X-gene a workout today."

Though every one of them had different tolerance levels, mutants were resilient; hardy. Learning this had reshaped a lot of Lance's childhood memories: how fast he seemed to heal from even the nastiest of incidents. How could hold his breath for longer underwater. Withstand great heat. He was more flexible than his size and structure should bely.

He, like all of Xavier's students, was truly evolved

"I'm okay," Lance said. "Hungry though." He stumbled out of the sauna and into the the boy's locker room, which was thankfully empty. He glanced from the toilets and showers to the left, to the (unlocked) lockers and benches to the right. As it belonged to a private facility, it was much smaller and neater than the one they had at Bayville high.

"It's too clean in here," Lance complained, finding his own locker and grabbing some spare clothes, dropping his robe as he changed. "Don't you kinda want to dirty it up a little?" Just as Pietro still felt the need to steal things he could easily pay for, so did Lance occasionally wish to ruin what was pristine.

He could _feel_ Pietro's smile behind him; a physical, puckish sensation directed his way. He rolled his eyes, fighting off a grin of his own. "Not like that, perv."  _Well, maybe a little like that._ "I mean, you got a Sharpie?" He framed the expanse of the pale blue wall with his hands, imagining it a canvas. "'For a good time, call Summers, 1-800-Snoresville!' 'Bitch-boy Summers takes it like a champ!'"

Because he knew Pietro was watching, he added a shimmy to his hips as he wriggled into his jeans, then adjusted his shirt, his vest, his gloves. "It'd really spruce the place up."

"You spend an awful lot of time thinking about how Summers likes it," Pietro pointed out, sarcasm and dark amusement in his tone. “I'm beginning to think you’re hot for him, Alvers. You like squeaky-clean boyscouts?”

Lance’s expression of utter disgust had Pietro’s sharp laughter pinging off the cement walls.

Both dressed, they made for the hallway of the mansion, nudging and poking and bickering with one another all the while.

As always when he passed it, Xavier’s elevator beckoned to Lance-- it was a forbidden space to students, after all; no better place for trouble-- but begrudgingly allowed his boyfriend to drag him down the stairs from the training/gym floor, past the educational floor, below the dormitory floors (both staff and students), and finally to the ground floor where the library was located.

Lance startled when he felt Pietro slip something flat into his back pocket, reaching behind himself to feel. “Is that a condom?”

Pietro’s Jack-o-lantern grin needed only a candle to be truly ghoulish. “Lance Dominic Alvers! I would _never_ be so irresponsible! No, good sir; it is a condom  _and_ a packet of lube!”

Lance laughed, even as he felt his face heat; his earlier ‘problem’ regaining some life. “You got something in mind, pretty boy?”

Pietro shrugged innocently, his halo, as always, supported by his devil horns. "Just thought some more time in the sauna would do us some good, after lights out."

Damn Pietro, putting thoughts like that into Lance's head immediately before they were meant to speak with a telepath. Lance grinned.

He reached for the round doorknob in the center of the library door, and was surprised to see a large group clustered around Xavier's desk: Logan, bearing no sign of his previous injuries; Hank, and Ororo; Xavier's three professors, as well as Scott Summers. Charles himself sat with his hands in his lap.

"Mr. Alvers, do come in," he said, gesturing to the single chair left unoccupied in the circle. "Mr. Maximoff, if you'll just wait outside for me?"

"Because I have _nothing_ better to do, right?" Pietro rolled his eyes in sarcastic annoyance, but did as requested, shutting the library door behind Lance.

Lance was less than thrilled about having to sit next to Scott, but Ororo flashed him her lovely smile, so he did as directed and tried not to flush too red when the condom wrapper crinkled in his pocket.

Charles cleared his throat. "We've reviewed the footage of your hostage rescue," Charles said. "Although there were many juvenile errors--"

"-- You always _freeze_ when you're hit, kid; what's up with that?!" Logan couldn't contain himself. He leaned into Lance's space, jabbing his chest with a stubby finger. "Ya stiffen up every damn time. If I'd really wanted you dead, your guts would be steaming in the snow by now."

Lance wanted to argue that he didn't freeze when just _anyone_ hit him; only when the hit came from someone he trusted. He could never really take Logan seriously as an opponent, simply because he knew the other mutant had a heart of gold and would never truly harm a student.

Xavier, knowing what a tedious debate that thought would bring, was quick to cut in. _"But_ your instincts were good, and your problem-solving was exactly what we'd hoped it would be. Even under great stress, you knew your limits and you acted accordingly. Allowing Rogue to use your powers at the cost of your own strength very well done indeed."

"I was surprised," Lance admitted. "Usually the hostages are just... Hostages. Civilians. Humans. It was hard to figure out that you meant Rogue to be herself all along, that she wasn't a stand-in for the average Joe."

"Yes, I _did_ like that bit of planning. That was Ororo's idea." Charles gave Lance a pleased smile; the first he'd ever received from the billionaire. Maybe the guy was starting to like him. "Ororo believes that you are someone meant to work with a team. So, we gave you a partner to work with."

The queen nodded, her eyes bright and piercing. "I believe that you have a tendency, a _need_ , to be the hero in all situations. I wanted to test that; to see if you'd allow someone else to save the day if it was for the greater good."

Lance reddened at the gentle criticism. Sure, he liked to be the rescuer, the one holding the trophy at the end, but when lives were on the line, he could make the right call! He wasn't _that_ much of a narcissist.

As though sensing his embarrassment, Ororo reached to squeeze his shoulder. "You did _good_ , Lance," she praised. "Be proud of it. A hero is not always the one that crosses the finish line. Sometimes it takes many heroes to save the day."

Scott huffed an irritated breath and leaned across the table to entreaty his foster father. "Charles, I just don't see that Alvers did _enough_ to be advanced to my program. Is he really ready? _My_ test, if you recall, involved crossing a desert, blind without my goggles. An actual desert! Not the Danger Room."

"We design our exams with each student's skills, weaknesses, and potential in mind," Hank said gently, and rested a heavy paw on Scott's back. "You passed _your_ test admirably, Cyclops. _This_ was Lance's test. We have decided that he is ready to begin his real-world training, and we believe that you are the man for the job."

This brought Lance up short. Sure, he’d known he'd become Scott's underling in this accelerated program, performing real-world rescues and services as superheroes-in-training, but he never truly believed he'd make it this far.

Scott looked as disgruntled as Lance felt. Both orphans studiously avoided eye-contact with one another.

"He's not even eighteen yet," Scott threw out as a last resort. "If he gets hurt..."

"You'll have to make the judgement calls, then," Ororo interrupted, her tone indicating that the conversation was quite finished. "Mr. Alvers is your responsibility now; age included. If you deem a task too dangerous..."

Something about this didn't sit right with Lance. A whole roomful of seasoned adults were collectively agreeing that Lance's seventeen-year-old safety rested in the hands of eighteen-year-old Scott? He didn't care for Scott Summers, but that was a _lot_ of pressure to put on one teenager. What was the big hurry to matriculate?

Charles met Lance's eyes with his own blue, blue stare; the kind that made Lance feel both cold and hot at once, then numbed as though by a liquid narcotic. He felt the worry leach from his mind until he was once again confident with the way his life was going.

He punched Scott lightly in the shoulder. "Lighten up, Summers. It's _fine."_

Scott frowned, but as he rarely wore any other expression, it didn't make that big of a difference. Lance resumed ignoring him and joined in on the conversation of training schedules; uniform adaptations; potential curriculums...

As the meeting wrapped up, Ororo snapped her fingers in sudden recollection and turned her attention back to Lance. “I almost forgot. We use student-chosen names as code words to assimilate unity and promote team spirit. As you know, I am Storm; Logan is the Wolverine; Hank is the Beast…”

Lance nodded. It’d amused him endlessly when the younger X-kids had decided to call Scott ‘Cyclops.’ He both looked forward to and dreaded what they’d dreamed up for him.

Ororo’s grin widened as she stood and offered her hand. He gave her his own to shake.

“Welcome to the team, Avalanche.”

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_November 2002_

Making their Friday trip to town to goof around until it was time for Shabbat, Lance slurped the foam from his McDonald's coffee and watched, fondly, as Pietro annihilated a stack of burgers.

"Nobody would know how much you eat, just by looking at you," Lance remarked, though Pietro _had_ bulked up considerably in their time at Xavier's mansion. Unlimited access to two walk-in refrigerators on top of regularly scheduled meals and snacks (Logan was constantly on their asses about carbs and protein surrounding workouts) had done wonders for them both. "Remember how _tiny_ you used to be?"

"Don't remind me, Lancevalanche," Pietro grouched sourly.

"You could probably even kick _my_ ass these days," Lance mused, tickled by the idea. They were rarely paired to spar in training, as contesting their powers was like pitting apples against oranges.

"Not interested," Pietro rebuffed. "Kicking your ass wouldn't be any fun, anyway. You'd get all sad with those big puppy-dog eyes of yours, and then I'd feel like a dick."

Lance didn't deny it. "Don't worry about it, P," he said easily, one hand on the steering wheel, the other slung around his boyfriend's neck. "You'd never hurt me. I know you _love_ me." He made kissy noises until the last quarter of Pietro's burger was crammed between his lips, and then he chewed in amused silence.

He was warmed when Pietro rooted around the Jeep's glove compartment, producing both of their kippahs and the mix tape Lance had made for him two years prior. Pietro inserted the latter into the tape deck and leaned against Lance's side as he listened to Hole.

_“I told you from the start just how this would end; when I get what I want, then I never want it again…”_

"I hate the way people treated Love, after Cobain died," Lance remarked. Courtney’s smoky growl wrapped thorny vines around his chest and coated his skin like dark velvet. "It wasn't her fault. Sometimes people just break, and then it's the ones that love them who take the fallout."

"Very insightful, Alvers."

Judging by his tone, Pietro was edging towards one of his moods, but trying hard not to take it out on Lance. Lance pondered how best to iron him out as they pulled into the familiar gas station parking lot.

"Wanna stay toasty in here?" Lance offered. "I'll just go grab my mail real quick, and then I'll take you somewhere cool."

“But Shabbat--”

“You don’t look like a Shabbat mood tonight. Maybe we can play hookie?”

Pietro considered, rubbing his thumb over the soft fabric of their kippahs, before leaning forward to place them back in the glove compartment. “Alright.”

Lance smiled, hopping from the Jeep and shutting the door behind him, leaving the engine running. He jogged to Pietro’s window and tapped on it, then, when the boy confusedly rolled it down, surged on tiptoe to kiss his forehead.

“You dork!” the startled laugh left Pietro before he remembered he was supposed to be grumpy.

 _“Your_ dork,” Lance corrected, accidentally sinking shin-deep into a snowdrift. It was worth it just to see Pietro smile, soft and gentle, the way he only ever smiled for Lance.

“Mine,” he agreed. “Go on, rockstar. Get your mail.”

Lance happily gamboled for the store, turning to wave as he did so, finding joy in the little things: the crunch of ice underfoot, the frost of his breath in the air, the way his heart pounded loud in his chest.

“Hey, sexy lady!” he greeted when he saw his favorite cashier working the counter, reading yet another novel. She startled at the sound of his voice and turned wide eyes on him.

“Oh, Lance…”

“Don’t worry, I'm not here for cigs. I’m back on the wagon.” Hacking up lungfuls of sticky black goo after a particularly grueling session while Summers watched in silent judgement had been enough to set Lance on the straight and narrow. Pietro said Lance tasted better when he was clean, anyway.

She continued gaping at him as he sauntered to her counter, drumming his knuckles lightly on the surface. Sometimes she got like that; so caught up in her books that she forgot how to Person for a while. He waited for the moment to pass.

“Any mail for me?”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again, and then sighed and reached under the counter before passing a couple envelopes his way. Lance took them eagerly, but frowned when he saw only his own handwriting on the labels and a return-to-sender stamp on each envelope.

“Why am I getting my shit back?” Lance huffed, irritated, but for this Shelley had no response. “Did they, like, move him without telling me?”

He held the top letter close to his face, squinting as he read the tiny red print smearing the stamp: **_ADDRESSEE: DECEASED. RETURN TO SENDER._ **

"I'm so sorry, Lance," Shelley whispered, reaching to touch his hand. "Those all just came in this morning."

All of them? Lance quickly flipped through the small stack of envelopes; all letters he'd written to Dex, all sent back to him. _Deceased, deceased, deceased._

"Why do these all say he's dead? That's nuts, Shel. He's... Something got all fucked up. Do you have a phone?"

She nodded, avoiding his eyes, and he wanted to grab her shoulders in reassurance. This really was some big mistake; she didn't have to look so sorrowful about it! It was sweet of her to care, but _really!_

He felt the beginnings of a laugh stretch his face as she led him around the counter to the tiny employees-only office just beyond. There was a desk, a computer, a trash can, a file cabinet, a money safe...

Lance sat in the wheeled desk chair and picked up the phone receiver, hearing the dial tone.

"Dial nine first, then the area code," Shelley advised, and left him to it. She probably wasn't supposed to leave a customer alone with all this important business stuff. He wanted to call her back, but it was best to get this over with fast. Pietro was waiting for him.

He dialed nine; the Deerfield area code; the seven digits printed on the envelopes he held. As always when he called the prison, he was taken through through a series of menu options before he was put on hold for far too long to speak with an employee.

The second he heard a human voice on the other line, he sighed. Forced himself to smile, because he knew it was audible in his voice. “Hi, I’m calling about Dex? Dexter Wilson? Yeah, he’s my foster brother, and...”

He caught a glimpse of his own reflection on the black computer monitor, distorted like a fishbowl, and cringed at how crazy his smile looked. He turned away, watching Shelley from the open office door instead. She stood so still at the counter, not even reaching for her book.

“His mail came back to me. It says the addressee is deceased? I just wanted to make sure it was some mistake. He’s not--”

The professional voice on the other line droned on. Lance felt his hand on the landline receiver go numb first, then his face. His ears. His throat. His--

“On… You said on Halloween? Why am I just _now--_ no, he-- a fight? I’m. _Yes_ , I want you to send me the autopsy reports, I'm his next of kin! You’re wrong. You’re wrong, you’re-- You sent his body to _who?!_ Why the fuck would you send it to the Round Table house? They’re not his fucking family!"

Lance didn't realize that he'd stood up, that he was shouting, until a quake rattled the entire gas station. He heard Shelley yelp as they were rocked, as multiple items fell off of shelves with a crash.

_Oh, fuck--_

Pietro was there in a heartbeat, gripping Lance's shoulders. "What the fuck?" he hissed into Lance's free ear. "Alvers..."

"Dex can't be dead," Lance repeated dumbly. To Pietro he explained, "They're saying Dex was, uh. Beaten to death? In a, uh. A fight? In the yard?"

"Official cause of death is the severing of the spinal column through blunt force trauma," the employee supplied helpfully, and the quake that followed was violently ripped from Lance's very pores. The entire station rocked hard on its foundation, and Shelley's next scream ended in a whimper of terror. She was now hiding, wide-eyed, underneath her counter, staring out at them like a stray cat in a storm.

Pietro ripped the phone from Lance's hand and slammed it back into its cradle. Lance could have punched him for that-- he still hadn't heard what he needed to hear: That this was all some sick prank, and Dex was doing just fine, making everyone in Deerfield prison his bitch. King of the cell block as he was once king of the Round Table boarding house.

Before he could so much as turn on his boyfriend, Pietro was out of the office and kneeling by the counter, grabbing for Shelley's ankles.

"Don’t! Get away from me!" Frightened, she tried to curl in on herself, but Pietro was faster. Dragging her out, he pinned her with a knee to the chest and wrapped a hand around her neck.

Lance was too surprised to say a word as Pietro applied pressure just below her left ear. A minute passed, and Shelley went limp on the floor.

"What did you do that for?" Lance asked, his voice sounding far away to his own ears, as Pietro climbed gracefully to his feet and lifted the unconscious cashier over one shoulder.

Pietro turned to him, his face blank and emotionless as any soldier's. "I’m doing my job. You gave us away to a civilian. It's either let Xavier erase her memories or we kill her now, Alvers. Which do _you_ prefer? Because I’m telling you right now, her life means nothing to me."

When Lance couldn’t answer, Pietro snorted his feelings and hauled her out to the Jeep himself.

Lance didn't know if he was even able to stop the quaking. He felt it pool inside him: the power to destroy an entire city block; maybe more; sinking houses and interstates and cracking the Bay itself open like an egg. He wanted to destroy it all. He wanted to crumble the world entirely, because the world had taken Dex away from him.

What was he supposed to do now?!

He counted his heartbeats, cautiously touching his seismic connection to the world. He felt the tectonic plates deep below from whence his powers stemmed. The dirt and metal and concrete and bones that covered it all, just begging to be commanded by Lance’s mighty hands.

He felt the power and strength like a sparking wire throughout his core and, watching Pietro toss Shelley into the backseat of the Jeep-- Dex’s Jeep!-- he forced himself to extinguish it. Drown it like a fire with a bucket of water. Kill it fast until it, and he, were sunk and limp over the desk chair; sodden and useless things that could once have become a great inferno.

Pietro returned not two seconds later, taking Lance’s sweaty face between his hands and turning him this way and that, examining the dead glassiness in his brown eyes.

“You in control?” Pietro confirmed. “Positive?”

“Mm.”

With a grunt, Pietro lifted the high school senior as he had Shelley; in a fireman’s carry they’d had to practice a thousand times over in training. He stuffed an arm between Lance’s knees to catch his opposite wrist for stability and walked out with little effort.

The store was a mess, but not terribly so. A few of the overhead fluorescent lights were out, but not all. Some products were scattered over the floor, including a broken bottle of wine, but it wasn’t anything like the shambles Lance had left Deerfield High in. This was okay. This could be seen as a freak accident, and be forgotten over time. Lance had regained his control before disaster.

“Grab me some Jack?” Lance murmured into Pietro’s neck. “Please, P? Just the one. I can’t make it through the night without it.”

He hadn’t had a drop in months. He didn’t have room in his life for alcohol, so his migraines were weathered out in the darkness of a quiet bedroom. But he’d learned early in life, had been taught by those he admired most, that agony could not be survived without drink. Every part of him screamed for it now.

Pietro opened his mouth, possibly to protest, then stilled when he felt the first of Lance’s tears slip down the collar of his shirt. Lance sniffed. Pietro sighed.

“Just the one,” Pietro said sternly, and stepped around the counter to grab an amber bottle from the shelf.

Lance squirmed to brush the dampness off his cheeks. Closed his eyes tight, and let himself be carried back into the cold.


	6. Into the Dark and Damp

**Part Three, Chapter 6: Into the Dark and Damp**

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_February 2003_

Tracking the Tracker through Bayville’s complicated, winding sewer system was proving to be a real pain in the ass. Pietro had meant to catch Caliban _before_ he'd slid that hairless, moon-pale body of his down a storm drain, but it was almost as though the man knew he was being watched. His movements were erratic; unpredictable; skittering like a lizard...

 _He doesn't know you're here,_ Pietro reminded himself irritably. Charles had given him a charm to wear around his neck, meant to throw off the mutant waves Caliban would otherwise have sensed off him.

Pietro had never kidnapped anyone before. Lucky for him, Caliban was quite skinny. Once Pietro got hold of the man, it'd supposedly be easy to carry him back to the professor.

But how to nab the slippery bastard?!

Once in the claustrophobic sewer tunnels, there was nowhere to go but forward: a straight hamster-tube of a path. The rainwater sloshed underfoot too loudly for stealth, and running him down would almost certainly earn a scream to alert the other sewer-dwellers.

"Let me get this straight," the seventeen-year-old had snarked just that afternoon, arms crossed, hip propped against Charles's desk. "You want me to drag some albino from the sewers-- which are apparently teaming with a gang of visibly mutated people-- so you can use his tracking powers to stalk somebody?"

Charles had fixed an impatient look at Pietro. "There’s no need to be so indignant. He will be compensated handsomely for his services."

"Well in _that_ case, sure! I know _I_ _'d_ just love it if a stranger snatched me from my bed to do work against my will. Definitely the best business model I’ve ever heard. Well planned, sir.”

Steepling his fingers and resting his chin on them, Charles had gazed tiredly at Pietro with an ' _are you quite finished_?' expression. "Sarcasm is unbecoming, Mr. Maximoff."

"Did you talk to my dad like that, too? ' _Harder, Mr. Lehnsherr_!'"

Annoyance grew into true anger on the billionaire's smooth face. Pietro had hit a nerve.

"I suppose, then," he said, his voice so calm and clear that he might have been pondering what to order for lunch. "That you are no longer interested in _my_ services? And here I'd had an appointment scheduled with Mr. Alvers to examine his brain and potentially alleviate his migraines, but if you'd rather I _didn’t_..."

Lance's migraines, though infrequent, caused violent quakes right off the richter scale. If Charles could stabilize them, it would make Lance all the safer from being caught and imprisoned or butchered or deified as a weather god by some crazed, terrified human mob. There was no choice, then.

"Fine," Pietro said, clipped. "I'll giftwrap a slave for you. But you'd better hold up your end or I'm putting him right back in the sewer. And if you mess with my boyfriend's brain any more than you have to, the way I _know_ you’re doing to Summers..."

He couldn't think of a satisfactory threat. Charles was a difficult foe to have, in that he could easily incapacitate any enemy with little more than eye-contact and powerfully commanded words. Technically speaking, he could have made them _all_ his slaves without so much as lifting a finger.

So he'd accepted the mission and taken the charm, and just as he'd turned to go, Charles had commanded Pietro's legs for him and forced his body right back to the desk.

"Remember, Mr. Maximoff," Charles said pleasantly, pressing a knuckle under Pietro's forcibly motionless chin, staring through him like an insect under a microscope. "You are valuable, certainly, but never think that you are irreplaceable. You are not the only speedster in this world."

Pietro wasn't permitted control of his own jaw, so he instead directed his thoughts Charles' way: _Not the only, but definitely the best. All of the benefits with none of the setbacks. Name me one other speedster who doesn’t collapse like an elderly narcoleptic after the first thousand miles._

Everything from the viscous, jelly-like consistency of Pietro’s tears to his dangerously enlarged heart-chambers, thickened veins, friction-resistant skin, and lactic acid-converting musculature had been tinkered with and perfected by Father almost a decade prior. Pietro’s body was nothing short of the perfect running machine, and Charles knew it.

"We'll see about that." Charles patted his cheek and then relaxed his mental hold. Pietro tried not to look too bothered by the temporary theft of his bodily autonomy as he left the library, a smirk on his face and a swagger to his hips.

So he slogged the sewers, which were growing larger and definitely showing hints of life as he travelled deeper. LED lights on a strings; graffiti over the concrete walls. It wasn't in English, or German, or any of the other languages Pietro could read, but it looked to him like instructions written in several different hands. Maybe it was French? He’d recently been studying the Parisian catacombs at school...

He was walking, unprepared, into someone's home with no places to hide, no way to mask the sounds of his footsteps or breathing... And he'd just lost sight of his target.

He stopped, forcing himself to think. What did he know about Caliban? The mutant was suspected to be somewhere between thirty and forty years old; an albino that suffered severe and potentially deadly burns from any sun exposure. His skeletal makeup was closer to a reptile than a primate...

Pietro looked up the tall walls and saw a red pair of red eyes gazing down at him from the shadows, just as the LED lights all went out at once, plunging them both into blackness.

There was the sound of running through shin-deep water before someone slammed bodily into Pietro, sprawling on his back in the water. Panicking, he struggled to stand, but a hulking form rose from the water to loom menacingly over him. It was humanoid in shape, but would have dwarfed even Lance.

_Fuck!_

The one who had hit him was back, knees on Pietro's chest, a forearm to his throat as they tried to force his head under water. In his flailing, he was briefly reminded of a time long ago, being bullied in the woods... But there was no Lance to save him now, was there?

_Stay calm. You're in control._

He wasn't. What powers did he have at his disposal, once he was unable to run?

Channeling all of Father's unflappable coolness into his voice, Pietro commanded, "Stop this. This is unnecessary. I mean you no harm. I am one of your kind."

"Who _are_ you?" his attacker demanded. Somehow, Pietro was surprised to hear a female voice underneath all the brute strength. Served him right for making assumptions, he supposed. At least she'd paused her attempt to drown him.

"I'm here for Caliban," Pietro said, and tried not to squeeze her arm too tight; tried not to let on how anxious he felt underneath the mask of his calm voice. "I'm here to offer him a job."

He'd closed his eyes to protect them from the water, but saw the moment the lights flicked back on; it filtered eerily through his eyelids. The woman’s grip eased. Though Pietro didn't dare sit up, he raised his neck above the water line. God, he was filthy now.

"Suspicioussss way to offer work," hissed another voice, as deep and elemental as boulders grinding against each other. "Sssssneakin’ after him like a fox in a henhouse."

"Well, I couldn't exactly shoot him an email," Pietro pointed out. "He's a hard man to find."

"That, I am." There was a splash as the red-eyed mutant clinging to the walls dropped back to the ground. "What sort of work are we talking about, little fox?"

Caliban approached, and Pietro dared open his eyes, blinking up at the three mutants surrounding him. His attacker was a muscular, human-passing woman in her early twenties, wearing a tank top and knee-high rubber boots over her jeans.

She might have been attractive, were it not for the heavy scarring across her face that disappeared behind a patch worn over one eye. Greasy black hair tumbled down her shoulders, and her expression was set in a sneer as she continued to pin him with her knees.

Just behind her loomed what looked like a remnant from the days of the dinosaurs. Standing close to eight feet tall, the creature had a long snout parted to reveal dagger-like teeth, fingers that ended in hooked claws, and a heavy tail to counterbalance her weight all packaged under thick, scaled gray flesh. Though she wore no clothing, there was nothing about her mammalian enough to evoke shame in onlookers.

Caliban himself, gaunt and pale as a spectre, was himself alarmingly tall and long-limbed. Like the woman, he wore ragged, utilitarian clothing. He approached and rested a spidery-fingered hand on the woman’s back, stroking her hair in a paternal fashion. “Let him up, Callisto. He is only a child.”

Callisto scoffed at this, affronted, her grip iron-strong around Pietro's throat. "Like hell he is! Lookit 'im. He's almost a man. He knows better. How old are you, boy?"

She gave Pietro a shake, and he contemplated lying. But for all he knew, at least one of them had lie-detecting abilities. "I'll be eighteen this spring," Pietro confessed. _If Scaley over there doesn’t eat me first._

"Solstice-born," echoed a child’s voice from further up the tunnel, and the two standing mutants turned to look its way. Pietro took the opportunity to sit up, and noticed a bowie knife strapped to Callisto’s thigh.

"Born one of two. The inferior half of a whole." The child’s words startled Pietro away from the knife, and he looked properly at her. She seemed to be about six years old; a tiny waif with curly brown hair and bulging eyes. Her gloved hands, twice as large as a fully grown man's, hung limply at her sides.

"Think you know everything about me, squirt?" Pietro sneered, though her words made his heart trip in his chest. Maybe Charles had just set a bad precedent, but mutants with psychic abilities would always creep him out.

She turned her unblinking eyes-- so pale they were almost entirely colorless-- on Pietro's face. "You have only sixty-seven days of life remaining before your heart will wither and rot and die inside of you."

 _Wow_ . Pietro suppressed a shudder. _Somebody_ had seen The Ring one too many times.

“Torpid,” the scaled beast scolded. “We’ve talked about reading outsiders their omens. It _scaresssss_ them, dove.”

Torpid hung her head, presumably in shame, letting her curtain of hair drape over her face. She did not move again.

 _Yeah,_ Pietro thought sarcastically, trying to shake off a fantastic bout of the creeps. _Cuz supplexing me in icy water makes me feel so calm and welcome, in comparison._ Out loud he asked, “Can I get up now?”

Callisto was reluctant, but Caliban tugged gently on her shoulder, so she stood and allowed Pietro to do the same before taking his arm again. The scaled beast pressed close, cutting off his retreat.

She leaned forward and sniffed at Pietro’s drenched hair. He fought to remain still, though her breath smelled of the soft rot of meat. "He's pretty,” she accused. “Lookit this pretty boy. He smells like clean sheets and lovers' kisses an' sweetest lies."

"He must belong to Xavier, then," Callisto surmised darkly, nodding at the scaled beast. "That man always keeps the prettiest monsters all to himself. He'd never be seen with the likes of _us_.”

They all stood and stewed on that for a moment, before the air and the icy water took effect and Pietro began to shiver violently.

"It is still a New York winter," Caliban mercifully pointed out, though nobody else seemed to be feeling the chill. "Let's bring him to the hearth and hear his story."

They walked along, a trio of guards surrounding a single, soaked prisoner. When they passed the little girl, the scaled beast bent and lifted her as though she were an infant, cooing warmly and pressing kisses.

"What's your name, kid?" Calisto asked, and Pietro almost grinned before remembering that was a good way to get his lights punched out. She, however unknowingly, perfectly fit the role of villian in Lance's weird-ass fairy lore. _Never 'give' your true name away, Tro, or they'll take it, and you, too._

"You may call me Quicksilver," he replied through chattering teeth, offering the goofy handle the X-kids had slapped him with after he'd aced his exam the previous October. "No offense, but you don't really look like someone who'd sleep around with gods to get ahead in life." She looked more like someone who would behead a god and bathe triumphantly in the arterial spray.

Callisto's single dark eye narrowed as she studied the teenager. "You're familiar with Greek mythology, I see.” Was that approval in her voice? "Then you'll know that Callisto was more than just a concubine. She escaped death by becoming a bear and giving birth in the stars."

"Can't see any stars here," Pietro pointed out, looking all around at the ribcage of pipes that made up the walls and ceiling; the constant, echoey drip from overhead; the ripple and slosh of graywater underfoot.

Callisto's grip loosened at last; not releasing him, but as though she'd lost some strength. "No," she agreed. "We see no stars anymore, Quicksilver. The outside world has taken it all and cast us out.”

They had. Pietro knew it. Sure; he, Lance, Kitty, and the rest of the X-kids _were_ pretty monsters, sheltered conditionally-- _always_ conditionally-- by Xavier's influence and wealth. But where did that leave the rest of the world’s mutants? Down in the dark and the damp, of course, where no stars ever shone.

 _Father will change things,_ Pietro reminded himself. _Father_ will _claim the world for us._ He'd always known Father did important work; that he was saving their species. Father saw the big picture. Father had a _vision_ , while lesser mutants like Pietro could only see the trees; never the forest.

_You're really choosing Lance over your people? You have the nerve to be upset that Father left you behind to focus on his work? What a selfish child you are. Father would think you such a traitor..._

This place was more a labyrinth than a sewer. Pietro wondered at its origins. Had the gang tunneled this place out themselves, connecting it here and there to storm drains for entryways and exits? Surely it was too spacious, too brightly lit, to be made only for humans waste?

His wonder increased alongside his anxiety as he was taken through twisting, bending tunnels, deeper and deeper below the city, and finally to a low, underground chamber lit by flaming grills and pits, all surrounded by folding or pool chairs.

Everything was protected from the damp by a raised concrete flooring, along and under and around which water and snowmelt continued to drain, leading Pietro to think of waterside cities like Venice, though a gondola would never have fit here.

The place had a look of recent exodus: everywhere Pietro looked he saw blankets; cans of food with spoons sticking out; abandoned games of cards; a record player elevated on a crate, crooning soft jazz...

Again, Pietro's mind wandered to Lance's fairy stories. Of liminal spaces and ley lines and knolls.

He thought of an albino doe with pink-flared nostrils and eyes that had seen the first zygote to rise from the waves-- and would certainly live to one day see mankind return to salt.

Pietro shook his head vigorously. He probably just wasn't getting enough air down here. It was making him loopy.

The chamber branched off in four directions like the arteries in a heart, though those smaller tunnels were too dark to see down.

"You can come out," Caliban said, and though he didn't raise his voice, the domed shape of the place and the concrete it was made from echoed his voice. “We are safe.”

From the shadowy tunnels they spilled: mutans, a baker's dozen of them, all of different ages and races and sizes. Most were visibly mutated in some way; here, a gray-skinned man who's bulbous nose consumed his entire face; there, a shape slowly leaching from the wall it was pressed to like a chameleon in hiding.

They all stared at Pietro mistrustfully, and he remained still, allowing them to look. He was like them, but not; privileged to walk under the sun simply because of how he looked, and he knew it. Father would have called them beautiful; kin. Something to be cherished and protected. Pietro saw them as threats first and victims second, and wouldn't be made to feel bad for it.

"What are we going to do to him?" asked the chameleon from the walls, still wearing the dappled gray texture of water-stained concrete, though it was gradually fading to a flesh-tone. He had a slight accent that Pietro placed as Creole. "Drown him? Gut him? Just make sure to check his pockets first."

Pietro stood proud and still as Father would have, and obeyed without resistance when Callisto tugged him over to a pool chair and shoved him onto it. Steam immediately began rising off his clothing from proximity to the fire, and he sighed in relief.

"We're going to find out why he's here," Caliban said simply, and dragged a folding chair close, tucking his spidery legs gracefully under himself as he sat and regarded the teenager. "You said you have work for me? That means _Xavier_ has work for me."

There was no point in denying, though the name sent a general hiss of dissent through the crowd. "He does. I don't know who he wants you to find, but I know he's paying."

"I could find work anywhere," Caliban pointed out. "I do, sometimes. My gifts are useful. Why should I agree to this? I have no need of Charles Xavier."

Pietro's chattering teeth reached their peak of intensity and then began to taper off as he warmed through. "Charles is a slippery little rat. But the money is good. He always gets what he wants in the end. If I can't convince you to come back with me, he'll send someone else. Someone worse. Do you really want some hired thugs tramping around down here? Learning _all_ about your gang?"　

He inclined his head meaningfully towards Torpid, the baby of the gang. Creepy as she was, she was still small and vulnerable, and based on the way the others stood around her, there was probably a story of how they'd come to have her. Had they found her? Rescued her? Birthed her? Had they collectively agreed to raise a mutant child? It wasn't hard to see she was a weak spot from a mile away.

Caliban frowned, a furrow forming between his brows as he thought this over. "You are saying that I have no choice."

"He wants you to think you have a choice. He always _wants_ you to think that." Pietro couldn't quite mask the bitterness in his voice. It earned him more than a few interested glances as the others slowly settled in their seats; resumed eating or playing or simply relaxing. "And it's so much easier to play along. Collect his money. It's a cage, sure, but at least it's a gilded one."

Caliban's unblinking red eyes burned like embers as he stared Pietro down, searching for a lie. Pietro didn't flinch, instead leaning forward in his chair to stare back.

With a snort of annoyance, Calisto planted a hand on his chest and shoved him back. "Knock it off. I don't know what powers you've got, but you ain't putting your voodoo on Cal."

"He has no mental persuasion," Caliban reassured her. "He is a speedster; nothing more."

This brought Pietro up short. "How can you know that?” Reaching into his shirt, he drew out the charm he wore. "I was given this to throw you off. It's supposed to nullify your powers."

Caliban reached for it, and Pietro allowed the taller mutant to slip the necklace from around his head. His fingers brushing Pietro's throat were cold as ice.

He examined the stone charm, turning it back and forth in his hand, before meeting Pietro's eyes. "You were lied to," he said, not unkindly. "This is just a rock on a string. I knew you followed me from the start. I knew who you were and who’s seed spawned you."

Pietro felt a little like he'd swallowed that stone and it was now hitting him hard in the stomach. Charles had outright _lied_ to his face. Had sent him into enemy territory without protection. Why? Was he meant to fail? Was this a test, or an execution?

"You know who my father is?" Pietro asked, and Caliban bowed his head.

"It is not your fault, little fox. We do not choose our blood."

And that was perhaps oddest of all. To someone like Caliban, wouldn’t Magneto be seen as a hero? A dark angel? A righteous force to deliver him from his own miserable life and into paradise?

"Who's his dad?" asked a black teenager who looked, to Pietro, like a completely ordinary human. Pietro wondered at his presence here, among all the visibly mutated. Perhaps his powers were so uncontrollably devastating that life above was impossible?

"That is not my story to tell, Cybelle," Caliban replied.

"He is the son of loss and the son of vengeance," whispered Torpid, from her position in the scaled beast’s arms. "They fill him. Drown him. He has been drowning since before he could breathe..."

Apparently, this cryptid commentary was commonplace for the unsettling child. Nobody so much as glanced at her, and after a moment she popped an enormous, gloved thumb into her mouth to suck.

Pietro wondered if he'd ruined his chances of swaying Caliban by this unknown deception. Who would want to work for a boss that lied like that?

But Caliban only studied the talisman a moment longer before tossing it into the water, where it sank out of sight.

"I'll go with you."

There was general dissent among the crowd.

"Hell, no!" protested Cybelle, at the same time as Calisto growled a wordless snarl.

Caliban waited them out patiently. "We need money. We're low on rations. And he already knows where to find us. Isn't it best to make nice with the powers that be?"

Nobody looked happy about this, but nobody argued, either. More than a few glared daggers at Pietro, who felt compelled to deflect, "He'll be _back_. It's not like I'm taking him forever."

"Aren't you?" the scaled beast asked, and Pietro shut up fast. He had no idea how long Charles intended to keep the man. In the end, it was easier to hang back and endure the dirty looks as Caliban disappeared down a tunnel and then returned with a bag of his belongings.

"No need to escort us out," he told the gang, and then went to each offering a brief, personal parting. He saved Calisto for last and, when she pressed her lips tight to keep them from trembling, looked down to hide the tears in her good eye, be drew her up with a finger under her chin to kiss her forehead softly.

"Protect them," he said simply, and she nodded.

It was a series of very personal moments Pietro knew he wasn't meant to be watching, but he'd never been great about boundaries. He stared on, and when Calisto caught his eye, she drew herself up tall. "I hope you realize what you're taking from us," she spat, and then stormed away from him, approaching the scaled beast and taking her arm, turning their backs to Pietro.

"I don't think she likes me much," Pietro muttered as Caliban fell into step beside him.

Caliban smiled. "No, she doesn't. She doesn't like most people."

Pietro could relate. "Yeah, I got that impression."

He longed for hobo fire the second they were again navigating the chill tunnels of the sewer, and nearly yelped when Caliban's long hands wrapped around his waist to boost him through the storm drain. The cold outside was just as bad, if less damp; sad heaps of leftover snow scooped to either side of the train tracks. This close to the Bay, Pietro could hear the shushing of waves.

When Caliban climbed out and stood beside him, moving always as though he had a few too many vertebra and joints in his skinny body, Pietro looked him up and down. "I can carry you," he offered. "Get us to the mansion fast."

He’d gotten better at transporting living passengers. It was a matter of protecting their extremities from vacuum pressure (achieved by holding their face to his chest and covering the exposed ear with a hand). Though his graveyard of test dummies destroyed while experimenting made the X-kids wary to let him practice on live subjects.

Caliban shook his head. "I no more wish to be carried than you would travel by sewer. I am what I am, and you are what you are, so let us stand on equal ground."

Walking to Xavier's by foot? Just peachy; it'd take them until dawn. Still, it was better than kidnapping. Pietro supposed he preferred this to the alternative. At least Caliban was a willing party.

Well. Maybe the journey would be good for answers. "You, uh. You mentioned knowing my father?"

Caliban nodded as they plodded along. "Not personally, but I've been in his proximity before. He is... Powerful."

That was perhaps the kindest adjective he could have used. Pietro laughed. "He's scary as fuck. I know it. You can say it. You think he can really liberate us?"

Caliban didn't agree or disagree; merely hummed. "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio..."

"Than are dreamt of in your philosophy," Pietro finished automatically, and Caliban shot him a pleased glance. Based on the name he'd chosen for himself, it stood to reason the man was a Shakespeare fanboy.

“Precisely,” Caliban smiled, and his teeth were long and sharp in the glow of the gaslights.

жж

Their bedroom was quiet and warm, and Pietro stood in the doorway for several long minutes, watching Lance sleep.

He'd passed out fully dressed on top of his blankets with his guitar in his lap, apparently taking advantage of his time alone to practice.It was a welcome sight, as Lance hadn't felt much like doing any of his favorite things since Dex's unexpected death.

Lance had been a real terror, spiralling through a months-long depression, cycling through all the stages of grief seemingly at random; furious one moment and laughing the next, aggressively seeking intimacy only to immediately push it away. He’d tantrumed outrageously, making enemies of all the X-kids, and then curled, docile as a lamb, in Pietro's lap; tears leaking from his eyes as though utterly unable to hold them back.

Were it not for Pietro's cheating, he would have flunked all of his classes that semester.

Dex's death had been a freak accident; that was what the official reports said. A fight between inmates had spread like a plague throughout the yard; a dervish of pent-up rage that had men clawing and beating one another senseless for no reason whatsoever.

Guards had been called to break it up, of course, but they said there was nothing they could do; by the time the mass had been separated, there was a body on the ground and nobody to confess who had thrown the unlucky punch.

"It is unlikely that Dexter felt any pain, or was even aware of what happened," the kindly coroner had explained to Lance, going over X-rays of the deceased prisoner's skull and spine. "See here? He was hit in exactly the wrong place with precisely the amount of force needed... The human body is a wonder, Lance. It can survive the most devastating of accidents with nary a scratch, and then one day the tiniest little slip will end it all. It was just the hand fate dealt."

Unsurprisingly, Lance hadn't taken comfort from this explanation. Once the denial had passed, he'd had weeks of violent nightmares, shouting and lashing out at anyone who dared intervene. He'd woken Pietro nightly to ensure his boyfriend was still breathing, somehow seized by the idea that at any moment, those surrounding him would suddenly be taken away from him.

Patience was not a trait that came naturally to the youngest Maximoff child. But for Lance, he did the best he could. He was the best self he had to offer.

He now crossed their bedroom to Lance and pried the guitar from his boyfriend's hands, setting it carefully in its velvet-lined case before tugging on the boots Lance still wore.

He must have been bone-deep in exhaustion, because he didn't so much as stir when Pietro laid him back properly and wrestled the blankets out from underneath him, pulling them to the teen's chin. He saw how puffy Lance's eyes were and sighed, knowing he'd been crying again.

"Oh, Lancelot. You don't feel anything halfway, do you?" Pietro sighed, and bent to kiss his forehead.

Lance shifted when Pietro stepped away to strip from his filthy, damp clothes, kicking them off and pulling a clean pair of underwear on. He needed a shower something fierce, but Lance's croaky voice called him back.

"P?"

"I'm here. Shh. Go back to sleep."

Lance rolled onto his side, reaching. "C'mere?"

"I smell like a sewer." _Literally..._

"Don't care."

Well. It _was_ cold. He dropped his towel and burrowed under the blankets with Lance, feeling properly warm for the first time in hours.

He thought Lance had fallen asleep again by the time he clicked their lamp off, but the teenager only rolled against Pietro's side, fumbling until Pietro gave him his hand, which he held like a lifeline. "Tell me a secret?"

Since he was likely to forget this conversation come morning, Pietro gave a shrug. "I'm pretty sure there's nothing I wouldn't do for you."

In answer, Pietro received only soft, deep breathing.


	7. This Whole, Rotten World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for violence/abuse.

**Part Three, Chapter 7: This Whole, Rotten World**

жж

_April 2003_

Waking on the morning of his eighteenth birthday with Lance’s hand warmly skimming his spine was, perhaps, the highlight of Pietro’s current living situation.

“Good morning,” Lance whispered, when he saw Pietro’s eyes slide open. The insomniac had been getting remarkably good sleep since arriving at Xavier’s, so long as it wasn’t interrupted by missions.

“Morning,” Pietro replied, for once not feeling self-conscious about his bedhead. “You’re up early.” Their alarm clock-- stationed on Pietro’s half of the room, as Lance had murdered the last two they owned-- showed another quarter of an hour before it was time to get ready for school.

“Yeah,” Lance nodded, and lifted his wrist to show Dex’s watch by way of explanation-- the one timepiece Lance had yet to break. Its little _pi-pi-pi_ noise aggravated Lance far less than other bells and tones. “Wanted to say happy birthday, first thing.”

Nobody else at the mansion, save Xavier himself, knew Pietro’s birthday. Not that anybody had asked; he was far from liked, here. But Pietro had given only Lance that secret in confidence. The date still made him feel melancholy; reminding him of a teenager located God-knew-where, celebrating her own birthday with nothing but straightjackets and syringes.

Pietro arched slightly as Lance’s gentle hand bumped along his ribs, tapping one at a time, light as feathers over Pietro’s golden skin. He, too, was sleepy-eyed, but his hair was wet from the shower, and his breath smelled minty.

Pietro grinned devilishly, propping himself up on one elbow. “ _Somebody_ brushed his teeth.”

Lance’s cheeks heated red. “I usually do.”

“Before waking me up, though? It’s almost like you had something planned…”

Aw, Lance was cute to tease. He still got all bashful, even after all this time...

“Lance _Alvers_. You aren’t proposing _birthday sex_ , are you?” He wriggled and stretched out on the bed, a true Victorian maiden on a fainting couch, and plastered a hand over his brow. Lance looked as though he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or scowl.

“You don’t have to be so damn clever all the time. I was trying to be romantic.”

It _was_ kind of romantic, actually, especially considering how little Lance had wanted anything like this since losing Dex. Lance had taken the loss to heart far more than Pietro had thought possible. He’d seemed to lose interest; distracted every time they wandered further than kissing and nuzzling. Lance’s heart had simply broken, and even Pietro, with all his scheming, couldn’t fix _that_.

The soft morning light reflecting off Lance’s face; the curtains parted, the window cracked to let in a breeze. The mansion was quiet, for once, without the constant thundering of foot-traffic in the hallways.

Lance’s hand migrated North on Pietro’s back, thumbing over his shoulderblades and rolling between the knobs of his spine. This was so… Comfortable.

_I want to spend the rest of my life waking up like this._

“What’d you have in mind?” Pietro asked, losing the teasing edge. As much as was possible, anyway. “You know me. I’m always up for whatever.” Any time, any place and, until he and Lance had begun dating, any _one_. Pietro wasn’t exactly picky.

Lance shrugged. He’d never figured out the whole ‘using his words thing. “Just wanna make you feel good.”

An ambitious endeavor. Pietro’s metabolism and speed meant a romp could last four or five rounds; until everyone involved was chafed and sore and sapped of energy. Lance had, in the past, had to tap out on multiple occasions, while Pietro was still Energizer Bunny-ing it up.

“You always make me feel good,” Pietro confessed, and pet Lance’s shower-wet hair. “I… Uh. You.”

Lance laughed, his crooked smile bunching to one side. “I ‘uh’ you too, Tro.”

How he glowed when he was happy. How he _shone_. It wasn’t the first time Pietro found himself struck by Lance’s innate goodness; a portrait of youthful optimism and heroism. He was a punk. He was an angel.

Lance, from where he knelt by Pietro’s bed, took the boy’s closest hand and brought it to his mouth, kissing his knuckles sweetly before dropping the hand. He then leaned forward and kissed Pietro on the forehead.

Pietro, knowing what came next, angled his face in time with Lance’s movements, feeling lips touch his nose; each of his cheeks; both eyelids. Lance’s natural campfire scent was just detectable underneath that of his soap, and Pietro breathed it in for comfort.

“Still mine?” he asked, opening his eyes and finding Lance watching him. As always when he used that word in such a context, Lance’s gaze went a little hazy; pupils expanding.

“All yours,” Lance agreed breathily, and dropped the blanket to the floor.

жж

Though he hadn't wanted the day to end, it was still a school night, and Pietro was trying to set a good example. They were almost finished with their senior year of high school, after all. Just a few more weeks of classes, and then he and his boyfriend would officially be graduates, freed from the confines of public schooling to focus solely on Xavier’s training.

He and Lance passed out in their separate beds, as spring nights were too warm and humid to share a space with Mr. Furnace. One of Pietro's last thoughts before drifting off had been, _if Xavier ever lets us move out, we'll have to buy two beds..._

He'd only been dozing for what felt like a few fluid minutes before the creaking of the door and a hallway light falling on his face roused him. Fuck off, Mary, he thought irritably, and opened his bleary eyes.

It was not Mary Hennessy standing at the foot of Pietro’s bed. Not even close.

“Happy birthday, Pietro,” Magneto greeted his son smoothly.

Pietro had never before experienced sleep paralysis, but he'd read about it, about how upon waking, the body was frozen, immobile, as the brain was tormented with visions of monsters; demons stealing one's breath and voice and...

What else could this be? Pietro's breath left him in a single puff, his hands immobile on his blanket. _It can't... This can't..._ "Papa?"

"I do hate to interrupt your rest," Erik Lehnsherr purred. He was sleek and handsome and tan, his hair white as dove’s feathers and his suit tailored to fit his muscular frame. Atop his head sat a specially-made helmet, designed to block all telepathic intrusion. "But I'm afraid we're on a tight schedule. We're needed in Ontario by tomorrow, so if you'll just collect your things..."

This was real. _It was real_. How many _years_ of his life had Pietro imagined; hoped;  _prayed_ for this exact scenario? For Father to return to him, to sweep him away on missions and adventures? To simply look at him with this exact supercilious smile?

This should have been impossible. How had Magneto gotten in? Xavier's mansion was meant to be a safe place-- _the_ safe place; a last bastion for their kind, if one was lucky enough to get in. It was protected; by cameras and weapons and warriors; by Charles's all-powerful mind...

Charles.

 _Fuck_.

In all things Magneto asked, there was only one acceptable answer: "Yes, Father."

Pietro numbly climbed out of bed and reached for his backpack, removing and setting his school things on the bed as he gathered the essentials: toiletries, wallet, underwear... He glimpsed his mix tape at the bottom of a drawer, and was quick to tuck that into a pocket, too.

In his sleep, Lance rolled over on his side, a hand falling over the edge of the bed. Pietro tried hard not to look at him as he slunk to the closet and grabbed jeans to tug over his boxers; a flannel shirt; a jacket. It was cold in Ontario, right?

Magneto watched calmly as his son sat and donned socks and shoes, fixing his hair in the mirror on the closet door. "You've grown."

_Of course I've grown! You've been gone since I was twelve!_

Pietro pushed the hysterical thought aside. "I'm not as tall as you."

"You favor Magda, in size and features. Your sister resembles me."

And wasn't _that_ just a one-two punch to the chest, reminding Pietro of all the family he'd lost? It was second nature to become cold as a glacier, to turn his feelings off like a switch. It was a skill Magneto himself had taught Pietro; had nourished until it could be utilized at will.

"I must say,” Magneto remarked. “I _am_ displeased to find you living _here_. You found your old home unsatisfactory?"

Oh, how to play this off?! How to make his actions seem reasonable; acceptable?

"It was," Pietro offered. "The foster family I was placed with were physically abusive. They disrespected our culture and my sexuality. I thought my time waiting for you was better spent with uncle Charles."

Pietro mentally patted himself on the back when he saw the murderous spark in Father's eyes. There was nothing Magneto hated more than bigoted humans.

"I see," Magneto said crisply, and Pietro knew all was forgiven. "Don't you worry. Soon there will remain no members of their plague to grieve you. We will purge the world of their rot, once and for all."

“Yes, Father.”

Pietro realized that he was stalling; packing far slower than he should. Lance would wake up to an empty room, and maybe he'd assume Pietro was already in the showers, or at breakfast. He was so groggy before his morning coffee that he might not notice Pietro's missing things until much later.

And then what? He'd probably assume Charles had sent him on another mission. Though they rarely took Pietro more than a day at a time, he'd been forced to miss sleep or school before.

How long would Lance wait before going to Charles to ask about his boyfriend's whereabouts? How long until Lance began searching for him?

Pietro hesitated before returning to his bed and picking up a pencil from his school supplies, flipping his physics notebook open to a blank page. What could he possibly write that would keep Lance from leaving Xavier's property; keep him here, safe here until Pietro could return for him?

Pietro never had a chance to puzzle it out. It seemed destiny had other plans. When the confused little "Tro?" filled the empty room, Pietro felt all of his organs tie into a single knot.

 _"'Tro'?"_ Magneto mocked the nickname, an eyebrow arched. "How sweet. Pietro, why don't you introduce me to your friend?"

"He's not my friend," Pietro was quick to rebuff. "He's just my roommate. An absolutely useless failure."

"Is he, now?"

Pietro could have vomited when Magneto crossed the room to stand at Lance's bed, offering a hand. "Young man, I am known by many names. You may call me Magneto. Tell me; in what ways are you evolved?"

Lance blinked confusedly, tousle-haired with pillow lines creasing his cheek. Any other night, Pietro would have seen that and crawled in close, to pushing his nose against Lance's overwarm neck to revel in drowsy closeness.

"You--" Lance stuttered, piecing it together. "You're Tro's... You're here to take..." Puzzle solved, Lance's bleary softness burned away into a hard determination. How many times had Pietro seen Lance take on the mantle of a hero?

 _This is not a fight you can win, Lancelot,_ Pietro thought in sick dread as Lance, clad only in boxers, surged from the bed with both hands extended, his eyes taking on their anticipated golden gleam.

Whatever Lance was planning to do to Magneto, the retribution would be swift, severe, and deadly. Pietro had grown up watching his father slaughter grown men with ease. It would be nothing for him to snuff out a groggy, half-naked kid now.

Before Magneto could so much as take a step, Pietro zipped across the bedroom, seized his boyfriend by the hair, and brought Lance's face down hard into his knee. The nauseating, wet crunch of shattered bone was the loudest sound in the world.

Lance froze like a deer in headlights.

Pietro felt blood soak his jeans as he brutally ground Lance's face against the denim before flinging him back, sent crashing hard into the far wall. Only then did Lance release a scream of agony as he crumpled into a ball, clutching his face, the many scars maring his back gleaming red the dim hallway lighting.

There was an aborted quake; just enough to rumble the floor. Not good. If Magneto suspected how  powerful was, he might try and take him anyway, despite the damage.

Pietro dove for Lance, shaking him by the throat. Lance's face was a bloody wreck, his badly broken nose set at an impossible angle. His eyes were huge; confused; _frightened_. Even still, he didn’t so much as raise a hand to push Pietro away.

"You've been a pain in my ass since day one, Alvers," Pietro sneered. "So fuckin' clingy. 'Good boy' this and 'good boy' that, and all your _stupid_ secrets... What are you; a damn dog that's been kicked so many times you don't know how to live without it anymore? Pretending you're some great hero when you can't even try to think for yourself? Go follow your mom’s example and die in a crackhouse.”

He saw the exact moment something inside Lance died; crunching into fractals just as his nose had. The very light left his eyes and he became an empty, Lance-shaped doll in Pietro's hands.

Well. That was it, then, huh? Over half a decade of friendship had been murdered in one fell swoop. Pietro released Lance and stood, stepping over his body like a pile of dirty laundry as he calmly finished his packing.

"Goodness," Magneto observed, unperturbed by this violent assault. "You were correct. He _is_ useless."

Pietro scoffed cruelly, throwing his bag over one shoulder and approaching his father at a rapid clip. "No kidding. Do you _see_ what you left me with? You couldn't have gotten me out of here sooner?"

"Ah, still so impatient… You had a lot of growing up to do. We had nothing left to offer one another. Physically, I'd already perfected you. The only remaining factor was time."

Pietro strongly doubted that Magneto’s returning on his eighteenth birthday was a coincidence. Pietro was an adult now. Ergo, he was useful. Magneto might have waited for Pietro to graduate high school, at least, but what was the point? Any further human education would only give Pietro opportunities; ideas. Things Magneto didn't need his son to have.

"Tro..." Lance gurgled nasally, still holding his face as blood streamed between his fingers. "I... I..."

Absolutely anything he could have said in that moment would have been devastating. Would have broken right through the ice protecting Pietro's heart. He couldn't afford to hear it.

"Shut up," Pietro snarled, reaching for his father's arm. "Just shut _up_ , Alvers. You were never anything but a warm mouth to me. I have no use for you anymore."

Magneto remained impassive as Pietro propelled him into the hallway. He shut the door after stepping over the threshold, leaving the love of his life crumpled and bleeding on the carpet. He forced a relaxed smile.

"You're looking well, Father."

"I'm looking old."

"You aren't." He wasn't. Although close to a hundred years old, the man had tinkered with his own biochemistry as he had his children's, and looked only half his age, exactly as he had the night he left. Perhaps one day even Pietro would appear older than his surviving parent.

"You flatter me."

Erik Lehnsherr strolled Xavier's mansion as though he owned the place; as though he'd been here only yesterday, instead of an entire decade prior. He made for the library, and Pietro followed.

Despite the lateness of the hour, Charles and Caliban both sat at Charles' desk, a full tea service spread before them. Pietro noticed the two additional settings at the desk: two empty chairs, teacups, saucers. That, coupled with the chessboard Charles had dusted off and set up nearby told a pitiful story indeed: The man _really_ wanted Magneto to stay.

At their approach, Caliban stared shamefully into his teacup, avoiding Pietro’s eyes entirely. At last Pietro understood _who_ Charles had needed the other mutant to track down. Had Father paid for Pietro, then? Purchased him from Charles like a secondhand pair of shoes?

"Thank you for looking after me, uncle Charles," Pietro said sweetly, and leaned in to kiss the man on the cheek, the same way he'd done as a child. Much as he detested him, Lance was still in his care.

Even Charles's considerable telepathic ability wouldn't have been able to breach Pietro's frozen mind just then, but Pietro didn't feel even the smallest sign of an attempt. Maybe now that the man Charles _really_ wanted was here, Pietro was only so much confetti in the wind. Indeed, his eyes did not leave Magneto's face once.

"Yes," Erik agreed. "Thank you, Charles. I can always count on you to keep my children safe. I’ve heard multiple reports over the years of you visiting my daughter in her institution...?"

Pietro almost lost control of his stoic expression. _What_?!

Charles smiled thinly. "What sort of friend would I be if I didn't?"

_He knew where she was all along and never once mentioned it--!_

"Yes, well. Your generosity is no longer required. Goodbye, Charles."

Charles's smile fell like leaves in autumn. "Oh, but surely now we can--"

"We can _not_ work together. You know this. Our goals are simply too different. I have no interest in converting humanity to good faith. I am here to eradicate them. I will accept no alternative."

Charles had no answer for this, but his disappointment was palpable. Perhaps he'd hoped that Pietro was the key back into his lover's good graces. The notion made Pietro want to snort. _I'm just a pawn, old man. That's all I ever was to him._

"There's a little mess in my bedroom," Pietro remarked on his way out, waving a hand in airy dismissal, his smile a knife aimed for the throat. "Perhaps you can send someone in to clean up an Avalanche?"

Pietro felt a bitter, hollow victory at the shock in Charles' eyes. Charles allowed this to happen. Pietro had no misgivings that the man considered it a worthwhile sacrifice, but at least now he'd be forced to manually handle the fallout of his selfishness. To look Lance in the eye and know what he'd done.

 _He didn't do it, though, did he?_ You _did..._

It was a numb walk indeed through silent mansion grounds, all the way to the parking garage. They passed Scott's convertible and Ororo's Cadillac; Logan's truck and motorcycle; Xavier’s zoo of identical black BMWs.

Pietro was quick to avert his stinging eyes from the beloved and battered Jeep, struggling to control his breathing, and focused instead on the charcoal-grey rental sedan that Magneto unlocked with the click of a button.

"I'll take that," Magneto said, and held an expectant hand out for his son’s bag.

Pietro passed it over numbly, realizing as he did so that Lance's blood had dried in watery brown streaks up his knuckles, his wrist...

"It'll have to go in the back seat," Magneto explained, opening the passenger door of the sedan and setting Pietro’s bag in the footwell. "As your birthday gift is in the trunk."

Numbness was threatening to overtake Pietro entirely. He could not stop staring at his hand; at the blood that coated it. He felt yet more blood drying into a crust on his knee...

"Pietro?"

"Oh... did you say a gift?"

"Why don't you go and have a look?" There was an indulgent chuckle from that silken voice.

Pietro obeyed on autopilot, stepping around the car-- _don’t look at the Jeep, don’t look at the Jeep!--_ and popped the trunk..

Seeing somebody's pale, dirty bare feet in his father's trunk was too surreal to process. He followed the arch and ankle, the long legs clad in oversized pajama bottoms, bent fetal at the knees. The hip and the torso and the pale arms and the tangled mass of long, black hair.

Was Father gifting him a corpse? _Why_?

The body moved feebly, groaning. Not a corpse, then.

"What is this?" Pietro asked, and from the driver's side door, Magneto smiled thinly.

"Don't you recognize your own sister?"

The words fell like dominoes in Pietro's head, clicking against one another as they destroyed their own design. _One. Two. Three._

__Your. Own. Sister._ _

The teenager shifted again, sipping shallow breaths through chapped lips. Pietro didn't consciously choose to reach into the trunk and touch her, bracing one hand on her leg. At the touch to her cold cheek, hazy blue eyes slid open and failed to quite focus on his face. Out of her mind on tranquilizers, then. Just as he remembered her.

Pietro felt an acute sensation of loss, in that moment: an utter loss of control in this situation; in his life. All his life he’d existed in a state of constant calculation, yet in this one move Father had eradicated all of Pietro’s options. He’d dug up one of two living people Pietro would do anything for, and had rendered her completely at his mercy. Checkmate. Game goes to Magneto.

Wanda blinked when a tear rolled down Pietro's cheek and wet her shoulder. He adjusted the hem of his twin's rumpled shirt, covering her goosepimpled belly. He slipped the jacket off his shoulders and tucked it around her thin frame, then used his hands to push her frizzy hair from her face. She didn't move again, not even when a second tear plopped audibly onto her proud Maximoff brow.

He watched her chest rise and fall beneath the jacket before gently closing the trunk. He came around and sat in the passenger seat of the sedan. He swiped at his wet face with stiff fingers that couldn't seem to bend.

"Aren't you happy?" Magneto asked, glancing behind them through the rearview mirror as he backed carefully from the parking garage. "I'd think you'd be quite pleased to be with your family like this."

Pietro opened his mouth, but it was several attempts before he could make himself speak. "Yes, Father."

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Lance Alvers had, overnight, become the ghost that haunted Xavier’s mansion.

His badly broken nose had been set with gauze and two metal splints, drawing attention away from his dual black eyes, but students still stared when he passed. So, he stopped leaving his room.

His empty room.

He'd never had his own room before. The silence screamed, and every shadow hid a demon.

His door stayed locked. When it was knocked upon, he ignored it. When Kitty phased through, he rolled away from her.

He ignored the food she brought. When she tried to speak to him, he pulled on his headphones. When she climbed into bed with him and clung to his back; when she cried hot tears into his shirt; when she pet his greasy, tangled hair, he held stiff as a corpse and waited her out until she let him be.

His sleep, when he managed it, was nothing but dreams of Pietro. Happy dreams; mostly. Strange ones, sometimes. The nightmares, though, _they_ were killer.

Pietro, wrapped up in gossamer threads of a spider's web. Pietro: a flashing silver fox pursued by baying hounds. Pietro, melting away to sand that slipped through Lance's fingers, no matter how hard he tried to hold on. His ice-blue eyes were always the last to go, remaining fixed and accusatory on Lance.

" _Why didn't you save me, Lancelot? I thought you were my hero..."_

Lance woke one night, muzzy-headed and confused by the night sky visible from the open window. Had Kitty opened it? He, and therefore the room, were seriously starting to stink. How long had it been since the world collapsed? Four days, judging by the beard-itch? Five?

Well, his bladder was full, and depressed as he might be, he still wasn't willing to lie in his own filth. He grudgingly slid bare feet from bed and grabbed the wall when his knees threatened to buckle. Fuck, he was dizzy.

He made it to the empty communal bathroom, where the wall clock told him it was just past ten, and studiously avoided the mirror as he washed his hands. It was probably a school night, right? Most of the younger kids would be in their rooms getting ready for bed. He could maybe risk a kitchen run.

Just as he'd avoided the mirror, he avoided all thought entirely as he walked the empty hallways of the mansion, feeling a great fatigue when he reached the stairs, and then soldiered his way on down without bothering to hit the lights. This was fine. He was doing okay.

The kitchen was stark and lifeless; loud with the hum of machinery, and seemed to Lance a bright alien landscape. He stood before the fridge and chugged milk straight from the carton, then forced open a Tupperware of what might have been tuna mac, shovelling chunks into his mouth with his fingers until his stomach felt full and cold. The act of transporting tasteless calories into his body took too much focus to think of anything else.

When the leftovers were gone, he set the container on a counter and sucked his fingers clean. He heard Kitty's laugh from the gameroom and mindlessly turned to follow it, wanting only to see her face; maybe offer a word of apology for being such a dick, if he could make himself speak.

As he approached, though, he realized she wasn't alone. Kurt was there, too, and Jean. Lance heard their voices mingling as they played some board game or other.

Aware of his haggard appearance, Lance held back, listening, waiting for an opening.

"Ahhh Kitty, the dice--"

"Oops, I dropped one!"

"Butterfingers!"

More laughter.

How could she be so carefree after losing Pietro like this? Weren't they meant to be the Three Musketeers? Why wasn't she like Lance, trapped in a nightmare with no end?

He sidestepped to peer through the cracked door, finding the group at one of the tables with a game of LIFE before them. Scott Summers was the fourth player, frowning at the rule book.

"I think we're missing some pieces. Did Rahne _eat_ them?"

"She doesn't eat plastic, Scott. She only chews on it when her teeth hurt."

Kurt shifted against Kitty's side, resting his head on her shoulder, his tail idly winding and unwinding her leg like a maypole. When had those two gotten so close?

"Here, it's your turn." Scott, evidently growing frustrated with the incongruous rule sheet, dropped both die into Jean's hand. She shook tiredly and let them fall, then telekinetically slid her game piece across the board without so much as lifting a finger. "At least Pricksilver isn't around anymore to wreck the game; always running around and stealing things..."

The table fell silent. Kitty stared at Scott until Jean elbowed him in the side. "What? Oh..."

He must have met Kitty's eyes; seen her expression.

"Not cool, man," Kurt chided his best friend. For a moment Scott looked apologetic before his usual superior expression resumed centerfold.

"What? It's not like he's dead. Are we all supposed to pretend he was a good person now? I know you grew up together, Kitty, but--"

"Please stop talking." Kitty's voice was very small, but Scott closed his mouth all the same. Awkward silence reigned, and then Kitty pushed away from the table. "I'm going to bed. Goodnight."

She strode from the table and through the far wall.

"Nice going," Kurt muttered darkly. "We were _trying_ to cheer her up--"

"Well, I didn't mean to upset her!" Cyclops blustered, adjusting his ever-present red goggles. "I just... What, are we supposed to pretend we _liked_ him now?"

"Yes!" Jean snapped, shooting her boyfriend a poisonous glare. "Yes, we are. Because we're her friends, and she loves him, and he’s _gone_!"

"How could she _love_ such a--!"

Lance had heard enough. Turning, he made his way for the stairs and back to the bathroom. Stripping the braces and gauze off his nose hurt so badly that he gasped-- time for his supposedly awesome X-gene to kick in-- then groaned when he caught a glimpse of the black-and-blue monstrosity in the mirror.

He chose a shower and stripped out of his filthy clothes before stepping under the hot water, washing his hair and body and gargling the rancid taste from his mouth. He stole someone's razor and shaved as best he could before dripping back to his room and grabbing his backpack.

It was just past midnight by the time Lance was fully dressed and packed. He held his guitar carefully so as not to bang into any walls as he made for the front doors, resting his hand on the cold handle when--

"Lance?"

 _Fuck_!

He spun on his heel and saw Kitty's nightgown-clad form just at the base of the stairs, her eyes wild.

There was no explaining himself: his appearance spoke volumes. Holding all of his belongings with the keys of his Jeep ready in hand? He might as well wave a flashing neon sign: I'M RUNNING AWAY!

So he stood still and quiet, and allowed Kitty to plass whatever damnation she would.

"You can’t do this to me, too!” she whispered, taking a step towards him, then another. "I know it's hard now, Lance. I _know_. I've cried every night... Everything _hurts_ , but please don't--! Just hold out until graduation with me, and then we can go home."

It was a tempting offer, to tough out these next few weeks before packing it all up and driving back to Deerfield. He could get his old job back at Dave's Nursery, and jam with Carmen, and...

And then what? Watch Kitty head off to college? Haunt her loved ones until he lost it completely and shot up with some tainted smack like Ionia Alvers had taught him, and then blow his own brains out over Kitty’s shiny wood floor?

He saw no way out of this hell that didn't end in his grave. No need to drag Kitty down with him.

"I can't stay," Lance said flatly, and met Kitty's eyes. Let her see the deadness in them. Let her know that there was no Lance left _to_ stay with her.

Her lips shook. She bit down hard on them, then stepped closer. Close enough to press her forehead into his chest. "Then take me with you."

Out of the question. Lance took a step back, shaking his head. "Your dad told me to protect you. So I'm protecting you. _No way in hell_ , Kitty."

"I am a grown, adult woman!" she snapped, scowling her offense up at him. "I didn't ask for your _protection,_ Lance. I asked for your friendship. That's all I ever wanted from you!"

"You don't want--"

"Don't you _dare_ tell me what I want!"

"Fine, then! _I_ don't want you to come! I don’t want… You.”

He dropped his guitar and bag to instead grip her waist and shove her away from him. He didn't have to push very hard. She’d gone rather limp.

"Oh," she said, voice tiny, as he released her.

Lance bent to pick up his things, then strode out into the night without so much as a backward glance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of part 3. Part 4 coming whenever I find time to write it.


	8. Part Four: You Can’t Go Home Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter references scenes in part [1, chapter 7 (A Galaxy in her Eyes)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14944463/chapters/35486448) and [part 3, chapter 4 (Locked In Love),](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16920801/chapters/41375180) if you need a recap.

**Mix Tape  
**

**Part Four**

****

_I’ve looked out and I’ve seen_  
_That you and I suit distance._  
_You are just a blindfold._  
_You’re the wool over my eyes._  
_You’re a white wolf wearing thin_  
_in sheep skin._

All the Luck in the World, _Golden October_

  
жж

_April 2003_

Kitty Pryde had never before experienced true heartbreak. It crested in her like waves, ebbing and flowing but always present, whether it was splashing around her ankles or drowning her entirely. She felt sick to her stomach from the constantly shifting tides.

“Rogue?” she whispered, a week and a half after the day that It Happened. It was dark in the girls’ shared room, but she knew that the other mutant was still awake, if only because her breathing was light. “Can I sleep with you?”

Rogue shifted in the darkness, sitting up. “That’s not safe,” she warned, but sounded unsure. Her Southern twang was always thicker when she felt sleepy.

“I’ll be careful. I’ll stay on top of the blankets.” And if Rogue did accidentally zap her with her power-stealing skin, Kitty didn’t think she’d mind. Rogue was gruff, but kind. Kitty would be safe. “Please?”

Rogue hemmed and hawed. “Oh, alright,” she decided, and so Kitty slipped from her bed and stumbled across the room for her roommate, climbing in and staying, as promised, on top of the sheets. Rogue put a plush lamb on the pillow between their faces.

“You doin’ okay?” she asked, after a time. Kitty tried to answer normally, to be the bubbly, chipper, pretty Kitty they all knew her for, but somehow she couldn't make herself say anything positive. The realization sparked a flare of panic in her-- Kitty _always_ had to be cheerful! She was her mom’s good girl; her dad’s bubbly baby. She was the rainbow after a storm.

But in that moment, she felt like the storm herself. Fat tears welled in her eyes, and she could do nothing to fight them. She turned her face away from Rogue and tried to cry silently.

A gloved hand pressed flat to her back. “Hey,” Rogue said, and then Kitty was lost. Her mouth fell open to emit an ugly, birdlike warble, and then she _sobbed._ Once she started, she couldn’t seem to stop. 

“Oh, _hell…”_ Rogue sat up again, and bodily hauled Kitty’s head into her blanket-clad lap. She wasn’t gentle as her fist thumped a rhythm between Kitty’s shoulders, but it was soothing; like a big heartbeat rocking her. Kitty muffled a wet howl in Rogue’s stomach; something animal and wild that frightened even her.

Kitty clung to Rogue’s thighs, digging her fingers in hard enough to bruise the other girl, but Rogue only held her back, squeezing tight.

“Don’t leave me!” Kitty wept, half out of her mind with overwhelming grief.

“I ain’t gonna!” Rogue hissed, not realizing that Kitty wasn’t talking to her; not really. “I’m right here.”

Kitty sobbed herself into exhaustion and then she could only lay, limp, feeling surprisingly gentle fingers comb through her hair. 

“Why did they do it?” she finally whispered. “I thought they loved me!”

She’d once told Pietro that she’d accompany him anywhere, and had been rejected. Then she’d told  Lance the same thing, and was turned away again. Had they ever really been her friends at all? Had she just been to them what the snooty girls from high school said she was -- an obnoxious tagalong they had to babysit?

Rogue didn’t hurry with an answer. She remained quiet for so long that Kitty nearly fell asleep, breathing in Rogue’s comforting, musky scent; feeling those silk-covered fingers gently scratching her scalp, finding tangles and working them out. The other girl was strong; muscled. In her arms, Kitty felt safe. _She’s like Lance… No. No, don’t think about him!_

“Have you talked to your folks?” Rogue asked hesitantly. Kitty didn’t know much about Rogue’s home life, though she knew she’d been adopted. It didn’t sound like talking to parents about problems was a solution that came naturally to her. That she was trying to think of things from Kitty’s perspective.

Kitty shook her head. “Not yet. They’d be so upset. They loved Tro and Lance almost as much as I did.”

“It might help to get your feelings out. Spring break is coming up. You should go home to them."

Kitty nodded, exhaustion drawing her eyelids down again and again. She fought sleep valiantly, trying to keep this conversation going -- it was the longest she'd spoken to Rogue since moving here. "Will you come with me?"  
  
_"Me?"_ Rogue startled, shifting to bite at her thumbnail; a bad habit she'd never quite broken. "Would they have me?"

"Of course. They'd love you."

Rogue paused again.  
  
"Please?" Kitty begged, propping up on her elbows. “Please, Rogue, please. I can’t bear to go back home by myself. I can’t! I _need_ you.”

“Oh, alright!” the grumpy teen snapped, flopping irritably onto her pillows. “But you have to get their permission first, got it? I ain’t just showing up to be turned away.”

Relieved, Kitty snuggled against Rogue, squeezing her tight around the waist. “You’re so good,” she praised, nuzzling, growing flustered only when she realized that it was Rogue’s soft chest she had her face pressed against. She was so used to boys that she forgot, sometimes--

“Sorry,” she whispered, and moved her head to the relative safety of Rogue’s shoulder.

Rogue said nothing; only patted her head in a stilted sort of way. Kitty got the impression that Rogue-- tough, gritty _Rogue--_ was embarrassed. It was almost enough to make her smile for the first time in days.

жж

Lance was looking pretty rough by the time he’d driven the many sleepless hours to Illinois.

He’d had to make several stops, drawing four hundred bucks in cash from ATM after ATM along the way until his credit card-- “for emergency use only”-- either ran out of juice or-- more likely-- Xavier’d cut the thing off. He ditched the plastic after that and, in a run-down, still-sleeping neighborhood, used a screwdriver to pop the plate off somebody else’s Jeep and switch it out for his own. He banked on the vehicle’s rustiness and the crumpled beer cans in the footwell that the owner wouldn’t notice or care.

He doubted Xavier would call the cops on him. He was over eighteen, after all; a legal adult free to do as he liked. But sometimes paranoia was justified. Lance knew that he was a valuable weapon, and wouldn’t put it past the multi-billionaire to try and drag him back by force.

On that logic, it was pretty damn stupid to be going back home at all. Home was the first place anybody would think to look for him. But he had some unfinished business in Deerfield, and besides; he didn’t know where else to go.

In Chicago he stopped at a McDonalds to grab some late breakfast and wash up in the bathroom. The cashier actually flinched at the sight of his bruised face. He shoved a crisp twenty at her, fresh from the ATM, and she counted out his change without taking her eyes off him, as though afraid he'd change his mind and try to rob the place. He ended up taking his food to the Jeep, unable to bear the weight of her stare on his back.

The thought that maybe it wasn't fear or judgement she was projecting, but _pity_ , thinking him an abused and dirty kid; that maybe she'd call the cops on him; had him setting his sandwich aside and quickly driving away, filling the gas tank again only when he’d put sufficient miles between himself and the eatery. 

Maybe he should come up with a plan. Lie low until his face healed, at least. But where to stay? A motel, until his money ran out? _Then_ what?

He thought of the Prydes. Surely _they_ would take him in...

Shame flooded him at the memory of pain in Kitty's eyes, back at the mansion. He'd broken her heart, as surely as Pietro had broken Lance’s. He didn't deserve to stand in the same room as the Prydes, let alone ask them for help. If they rejected him, if they _hated_ him, he would just die. He simply could not bear it.

So on he drove in a dead man’s car, putting the Sears towers in his rearview on the way to the highway, on and on until the motionless Ferris wheel of Navy Pier disappeared from sight entirely. He followed the road signs until landmarks started to look familiar, and then he knew he was almost home.

_Home…_

He felt the “Welcome to Deerfield” sign like a punch to the gut. God, God, _God._ He wanted to puke. He hadn’t been back in over a year, but everything looked the same. Of course it did; small towns didn’t change quickly. They evolved over long periods of time, like a species all their own. 

The smaller-than-average town was shaped like a horseshoe, with affluent neighborhoods, such as the Prydes', close to the entrance. Things softly went down from there, becoming more and more solidly middle-class.

Everything curved around the lake; the forest, which both supplied the lumber mill where most blue-collar employees worked, and most white-collars benefitted from.

Things became quite shoddy around the place where Lance grew up, but past that was the Deerfield trailer park, and past _that_ were some sparce, undocumented buildings, where much of Deerfield's drug production went down.

Boys like Lance grew up knowing the value of a brick of smack; an 8-ball of coke. They knew how much their work, their lives were valued in comparison, and the equation amounted to _not much._

Dex had fallen into the trap of the system. Burdens on society, the lot of them; good, decent taxpayers paid the government through the nose to raise them, and then paid even more to lock them away. That's what they'd been told all their lives. Poverty only looked pretty when you were rich.

But most boys like Lance were not biological weapons; had not been born with danger and violence encoded into their DNA. By the laws of supply and demand, Lance was a diamond in the rough. He could sell himself to the highest bidder, and live on those earnings for the rest of his life. He could be used to start a war, or to end one. He knew he was powerful, and knew he would only become more so over time.

So why was he _here?_

He slowed on reaching Deerfield Middle School. In a few hours, it would be full of students; students finally seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, the approach of summer vacation. For now, it was as still as a ghost’s playland, and oh; _how_ very haunted it was.

He couldn't look at that building without seeing a tiny, silver-haired brat; a brat who walked like a girl and dropped words like "corroborate" and "garrulous" in casual conversation. A boy who's tidy appearance and alien features practically _screamed_ "bully me! I'm not like you!"

A ball of grief threatened to close up his throat; to make it impossible to breathe. With difficulty, Lance swallowed it down and parked his Jeep at the mouth of the woods.

He sat for a time, unmoving, listening to the overworked engine work itself down. She could use a break. And he needed to go inside, just one more time. He had to see if there was still magic left in his world.

Finally, he opened the door and stood, stretching his long legs, working the cricks out of his back and shoulders. The early-morning air was chill -- not overwhelmingly so, but Illanois had a hard time letting go of winter. He felt it settle wetly on his skin, causing the break in his nose to ache on every inhale.

He walked to the back to dig a paper bag full of Jack from the backseat, tucking it under one arm, and then he set off on a walk, frosty grass and dead leaves crunching underfoot.

He reached the mud slick in record time -- man; it'd seemed to take much longer when he was a kid. Shorter legs, he supposed. He stared at it, remembering the way the two punks had held Pietro's face in the mud, trying to drown whatever it was that made him shine.

Even then, Lance hadn't wanted to live in a world without Pietro's light. He still didn't.

Fuck. There that ball of grief was again; right back in his throat, choking him like he'd swallowed a chip the wrong way, and now had to endure it scraping all the way down.

He tore his eyes away from the mudslick. That might have been the start of them, but it wasn't what really mattered. Lance had to walk further for that; past stumps of trees, and other trees marked with paint to later be cut down by loggers. As birds began to wake, they greeted Lance with their sleepy songs.

Their music was quickly drowned out by the burble of a stream, still blue and clean and full of fish; lumps that held duck's eggs in the mud. Nothing like that stagnant, mosquito-filled water, above which Kissing Bridge still held their padlock.

_Locked in love, forever._ What bullshit. Lance shoved aside the uneasy thought that Pietro wasn't the type to make promises lightly, and certainly did not commit himself to people without reason. That there was still a possibility he had meant his words when he uttered them.

Nobody who loved someone would do what Pietro had done to Lance, and that was the beginning and the end of it. Pietro did not love Lance, and he never had. Lance had to believe that, or he would drive himself insane.

Where once Lance had had to leap across the stream, now he barely had to step. Oh, it became thicker and deeper downstream a ways, but at this crossing point, it was no effort at all.

This realization gave him pause. The woods _did not feel magical._ The trees no longer felt larger than life; the bird and frog call was not a mystery anymore. Lance was not going to find what he was looking for. What he'd driven all the way from New York to find.

The golden-tinged memories of this place would turn to ash, and then he wouldn't even have those, untainted, anymore.

He was going to ruin the mysticism behind his and Pietro's interactions; rip away the rosy glasses he viewed them with. They would no longer be magical and untouchable for him; but the mundane superstitions of childhood.

He'd come into the woods to kill his heart, and he wouldn't leave until the dirty deed was done.

The clearing of purple flowers on green clover was beautiful; so soft and fragrant it could have been printed on a postcard. But they were only flowers; not the garden of a fairy.

Christ. Had he _really_ believed in fairies so adamantly? That was weird for a boy, right? Or for any kid who'd outgrown Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy. Why had he clung to the dumb idea for so long...?

He felt something squishy under his foot, and looked down, stepping back, nudging apart the clover patch with the toe of his shoes. He saw the spotted cap of a mushroom and froze.

_The deer. She was real! Hail to the Queen._

For a moment, he didn't understand the thought, or why it had come to him with such awed certainty. What deer? What queen?

A memory flickered, and he seized upon it, feeling Pietro's bony shoulders against his chest, the boy's fine hair tickling his cheek, seeing the freckles, the long silver eyelashes...

He focused harder and tasted warm soda; felt the fragrant crush of flowers all around him. He had been pinning Pietro to the ground, but why...?

The fairy ring.

The rabbit.

The white doe.

Long since dismissed in his mind as a dream, he could suddenly picture all of it in perfect clarity. Pietro had wanted to stand in a ring of mushrooms; Lance had forbidden him, physically held him down so he wouldn't cross the boundary between the human world and that of the fey.

He remembered Pietro's expression of wonderment as he gazed at the ethereal animals, feeling the same magic that Lance had felt. Forgotten or not, the memories were still holy.

As an adult, Lance knew that albino deer weren't _too_ rare; they were simply uncommon, because they were so easy for hunters or predators to find. For one to have lived to adulthood was unusual indeed.

Unusual, but not impossible. Not supernatural. Not holy.

He pushed more clover around the mushroom until he found another, and another. Mushroom rings, he knew, were not magical either. Often they just cropped up wherever a tree or animal had died and rotted, circling the source of nutrients, appearing and disappearing as suddenly as a mist. He hadn’t needed to be so afraid of losing Pietro to some fungi, after all. The thing that eventually stole him away was far more sinister than the fair folk.

In a moment of heated defiance, Lance stepped into the ring; first one foot, then the other.

He stood in the center with his free hand extended, daring something, anything to find him, to take him away. _Here I am! Have me. I don't care anymore!_

Nothing happened. The wind continued to blow gently. The stream, in the distance, still burbled. The sun rose inch by infinitesimal inch.

Lance, with an irritated huff, sank to his heels, pulled the first bottle of Jack from his paper bag, and, in a bitter mockery of the treasured picnic he’d had here so many years ago, proceeded to get very, very drunk.

жж

Between the alcohol and the fatigue of driving all night, when Lance at last collapsed in his so-called fairy ring, he slept _hard_. Hours passed with his fingers curled around a near-empty bottle, his head pillowed on his opposite arm, the shadows of passing clouds dappling his face.

His dreams were fleeting; uneasy; semi-lucid, yet scarcely focused at all. At some point, Dex approached, the toes of his boots just outside the mushrooms, a smoldering cigarette held between two fingers. His orange prison jumpsuit slid down one skinny shoulder, and he gave it a wiggle to adjust it.

"What'd I tell you about fairy rings, shitstain?" he sighed, disappointed but not surprised. "I'm not even two years cold and you're already acting like a fool?"

"Dex?" Lance muttered, groggy. One side of the man’s head was caved in like a pumpkin; his blond curls were matted with dried blood and sticky clumps of gray. Lance figured it probably wasn't polite to point out the way one of Dex's eyes bulged from socket; the blood staining his mossy teeth; but it was distressing to look at.

"The one and only. I swear, kid, can't you let me rest in peace? I'm _dead_ and I still gotta protect your sorry ass?"

"Protect me from what?" Lance asked. He wanted to move closer, wanted to... do something. Hug Dex, or at least put a hand on him. Check if was real. But his body felt heavy as stone. He couldn't even wiggle his toes. When a tiny white moth landed on his nose, he couldn't sneeze her away.

"From yourself, apparently." 

Lance was pretty sure heavy boots weren't acceptable prison shoes, but Dex wore them anyway. They came into Lance's line of sight when the man approached and rested one on his shoulder, giving him a gentle kick to roll him onto his side. The moth danced away.

Dex squatted; touched Lance's face with cold blue fingers; tilted his head at an angle. "Don't you know about choking on your own puke when you pass out drunk? Your loser boyfriend ain't worth that." Tears stung Lance’s eyes. The excess of alcohol had brought all emotion right to the surface, and hearing Dex talk about Pietro was more than he thought he could handle. On seeing this, Dex heaved a sigh. “Hey.”

His tattooed thumb rubbed under Lance’s eye, swiping the tear away. “I know it hurts, but you’ve been through worse, yeah?” Had he? Lance barely remembered John carving open his back. He supposed the pain of his mother failing to respond to calls from Child Protective Services; failing, even, to show up for her court hearing, sitting numb and blank as Lance was taken away from her, came pretty close. “You’re tough,” Dex reminded him. “You’ll live through this.”

More tears slid down Lance’s face, wetting the clover he rested on. He didn’t _want_ to live through this. He didn’t want to live, period.

Dex glared, pointing accusingly at Lance with the cherry of his cigarette. It made his damaged eye bulge further, wet and cloudy. "Nuh-uh. You don't get to think that kinda shit around me. At least one of us should live to hit the legal drinking age, yeah?"

When Lance said nothing, Dex seemed to lose some of his fire. He sighed, head dropping, hair falling over his ruined face. "M'not gonna tell you what to do with your life, kid. I can’t promise things will get any better or easier, but I real-deal love you. So like... Give it another shot. Have one more day I didn’t get to live. Eat a fucking cheeseburger and shoot the shit with the guys. Okay?”

If Lance could have moved, he would have sobbed. As it was, the tears only fell from his eyes at an alarming rate. His nose ran. His lips shook with ragged breaths. Dex's stiff hand stroked his hair like he was petting a long-furred cat.

"Oh... kay..." Lance managed to wheeze, through teeth that wouldn't part; a jaw that wouldn't unlock. "Okay, Dex." And, with effort, “I love you.” Dex smiled, suddenly looking much older than he had in life, his eyes full of the gentle love he’d never felt safe to express before.

With a final ruffle of Lance's hair, he stood and sauntered away, disappearing into the treeline. Without the strength to call him back, Lance slept on, unaware of his surroundings.

Later, much later, Lance woke to more voices; to a boot on his shoulder rolling him to his back.

"Well? Is he your hobo, Griff?" an unfamiliar voice asked.

"Yeah," sighed someone else, weary and knowing. "Yep, that's... That's Alvers."

"Fuck. So we can't steal the car?"

"I already told you no! Alvers, you awake?"

Strong hands shook him; took him by the lapels of his vest and pulled him into a seated position.

Lance groaned and opened his bleary eyes, dehydration kicking his hangover into overdrive. When his double-vision managed to focus, he saw a familiar scruffy face mere inches from his own. It was Griff; his old bunk-mate from the Round Table house. Behind him lurked a few boys Lance didn't know.

"Hey, buddy. I thought I recognized that Jeep." Griff grinned. "You look like shit. The fuck are you doing back in our neck of the woods?"

In response, Lance barely managed to scramble onto his hands and knees before vomiting all over his once-sacred clearing.


End file.
